Home Is Where The Coded Notebook Is
by Rianne
Summary: Sara's perspective on missing Gil, that NTSB guy and her uncertainty about the future. Inspired by the episodes Risky Business Class, Dead Air and now Forget Me Not, so there are Major Spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: All people, events and thoughts are borrowed or invented. Serious Spoilers for season 13, especially '_Risky Business Class_' and '_Dead Air'_. All familiar words were painstakingly transcribed the old fashioned way, play, pause, scribble, play, pause, scribble, play, pause, scribble, play, pause, scribble!

**Author Notes**: I watched _Dead Air_ and found myself inspired... Doesn't happen often these days!

**Home is where the coded notebook is...**

By Rianne

She eyed the lurking black form of her phone again.

Bottom line was that she needed it out on the desk in case DB or one of the others needed her for something.

The frustrating thing was that her willpower was at an all time low and her attention kept drifting over to the screen without her permission.

Just to check.

Her dependency as much of an addiction as a poison to her mood.

Each new hour, each new day, stretching lately into each new week, that passed without them talking to one another increased her distraction.

Each missed call.

Each new voicemail that arrived, just when she was in a meeting, at a scene, out driving, even in the bathroom.

Like he could see a sign by her name that told him she was occupied and now was the perfect time to call. She was beginning to feel suspicious that he aimed for times she would be unavailable, so that he would look like he was making the effort, but he wouldn't have to actually explain himself and his continuing absence, his incommunicado behaviours.

That flashing missed call notification always gifted her with that heart stopping moment when she saw that she had in fact missed him again.

It was getting harder and harder and taking increasingly longer to summon the courage to listen to whatever he had recorded. Feeling her heart stumble at the sound of his voice.

Occasionally he would text, but each new message he sent seemed as empty of emotion as a message sent from a stranger. Leaving her wondering what, if anything, he was attempting to say.

They had tried to coordinate time zones at first, but that hadn't helped much. His signal and connections were often turbulent and patchy. Her shifts were erratic and she often remained at work way past the time that they should have been over.

Yet, no one here noticed, or if they did no one passed comment. Pro bono always accepted, even expected from someone as focused as she.

Tonight though, the hours of her regular shift were plodding by, and all quiet on the Vegas front she was reduced to cleaning the equipment.

She had tried to work on an older cold case; hoping boredom would vie with infuriation and bring fresh perspective. But it was officially not happening tonight. The cold case had eventually been pushed aside, and now sat rapidly turning to freezing; developing ice crystals around the edges of the pages it felt that hopeless.

The others were dispersed out over the Lab. She could see Morgan at work in the next room, but the Plexiglas between them provided a sound barrier to idle conversation.

Her room was oppressively quiet, she could hear the dull tick from her watch and the surrounding corridors held the same eerie stillness in the hush of the night.

So empty they echoed.

An unsettlingly familiar feeling and the thing she usually came to work to escape.

Home was not really a word she felt anymore when she spent time inside the resonant walls she currently lived within.

The silence, the inactivity made her thoughts seem so much louder.

Filling her with an edge of paranoia and slow rising panic.

Her stomach twisted at the realisation that these thoughts had begun to broach her consciousness more and more often.

Causing herself worry she tried to ignore as she felt as the dull aching loneliness increase.

The what if's steadily gaining significance.

What if she had not come back to Vegas? What if their grant had come through? What if they had stayed in Paris? What if he had asked her to go to Peru with him? Why wasn't he asking her to join him now? Was she not qualified, experienced, wanted?

What would her life be like?

Thoughts like that building until she had to check herself.

Admonishing her weaknesses at letting the middle of the night blues steal into her.

She cleared her throat, reaching out for her phone.

His number eternally her speed dial no.1.

She crooked the cool plastic between her ear and her shoulder as she continued to clean.

Keeping her hands busy as her hopefulness at the prospect of talking to him swelled as the first ring filled her ears.

Building with the second, the third, the fourth, the fifth.

But by the sixth and then the seventh and final trill resignation had set in.

Her hope now fallen and adding to that ache in her stomach.

His voicemail was generic, not recorded anymore as he was using a network local to him.

"Hey Gil,"

Her voice sounded loud, sounded a little unfaithfully upbeat to her ears.

"I just wanted to hear your voice. It's kind of a slow night here."

Another empty meaningless arrangement of words.

She had nothing to say, or at least nothing to say to a machine and still despite everything she didn't want him to worry.

"Give me a call if you get a chance."

She hung up, lifting her hand to press the end call button before tossing the phone back to the table dismissively.

Like it was the phones fault her husband was unavailable.

Like it was to blame for the promise of connection it offered and then couldn't bring to fruition.

Like it was to blame for making her loneliness a sharper sting than ever.

For making her hope seem foolish.

000000

When her phone buzzed to life a few minutes later her head snapped up in expectant reflex.

D.B. RUSSELL

10 – 19 THE BREAK ROOM.

Displayed across the screen.

Work mode overtook her disappointment.

Her legs moving her forward before she had even finished reading the words.

Eager for a change of scenery and focus.

To find out why she, and by the look of it Morgan too, had been summoned.

Tossing her lab coat onto the back of the door hook and her latex gloves in the trash, she slipped her casual jacket on as she left the room.

Her long strides making short work of the corridor before an unexpected face brought her up shorter, her mouth opening in a wide-eyed gasp of surprise.

Doug Wilson.

As she lived and breathed.

Or didn't breathe as the case seemed to be.

The surrealistic sight of him being there, right there, in her break room was a little too much after the inertia of the last few hours.

Her heart was loud in her ears. Making itself known against her ribcage.

Her brain stumbling with confusion as an old world, an old life, came crashing into this one.

But before she could question, before she could even see his whole face or acknowledge his existence, D.B was gesturing for her to sit and she slammed her mouth closed and did as suggested, as the others, Nick, Greg and Morgan, joined them around the table.

The TV was on, playing a recording of a plane crash landing just off the strip, narrowly missing the Mediterranean Casino tower by mere feet.

Her eyes were on the screen, but her mind was far from it.

What was he doing here? Last she heard Doug was NTSB - National Transportation Safety Board, so pairing that information with the video she determined that the mystery summons was clearly about a plane crash.

But she was surprised that her brain had even made it that far with the current scrutiny.

Doug would already know the specifics of the case, and therefore would not need to watch the screen, but as far as she could tell that didn't really justify his attention not having left her since she had arrived in the room, or the fact that she was completely aware that his eyes were on her.

He was right next to her, standing whilst they were seated to watch.

Doug Wilson. All six foot something of him. Looking like her life from 14 years ago.

Hands in his pockets, casual as all get out, whilst she fought the urge to fidget.

She folded her hands in her lap to keep them still, and remain unflustered, conscious that the gold band she always wore felt cooler than her skin.

The tape paused and her attention was grounded again as DB said, "This was shot about 40 minutes ago, right before a chartered aircraft nosed into the ground at Tresser park."

Greg announced the mutual surprise of the assembled, "That's just a mile off the strip."

DB continued, gesturing to the man before them, "This is NTSB Investigator, Doug Wilson. He is going to be leading the crash investigation."

A final conformation for her that he really was here and not a tedium induced daydream on her part.

DB gestured between Doug and herself with the TV remote, casually announcing to all, "You two worked together before, right?"

Caught out, their eyes met for the first time since she had entered the room and the years disappeared as a few scattered memories of her San Francisco life breezed by.

Their mutual 'Yes's' tumbled over one another exposingly, as Doug broke their eye contact to acknowledge DB and she had to bite back her first smile all evening somehow managing to smother her response before Doug turned back to her, looking slightly guilty and she had to wonder what explanation he had given DB about their history.

They were all watching her now and so she had to say something.

"Yeah, on an NTSB crash scene when I worked at the San Francisco Crime Lab," she confirmed, a negligible amount of information, not incriminating and she was pleased to sound casual, unable to lift her focus from Doug. Appreciating all the slight changes which had overtaken his once so familiar face.

"Yeah, well right now we have very little information," Doug addressed to the others in the room to refocus their attentions, efficiently avoiding any more discussion of how the two of them were acquainted.

He continued to detail the little that they knew, mostly flight information gathered from the airport towers, and she watched, reluctantly proud of him and his calm professionalism, before he turned back to her at the very last moment, right at the end of announcing, "Answers that we hope you CSI's can find through evidence," and caught her watching him, before she reflexively looked away with a small acknowledging smile.

000000

Their first clue came from Finn. Sara found herself following DB and Doug along to hear what she had discovered.

Using audio analysis software on the distress call, Finn had enhanced the recording and discovered another voice from the cockpit, a male voice, which sounded agitated, leaping out from the background noise as the frightened Pilot had communicated his distress call to the airport command towers.

Two in the cockpit and yet, they had only found one body and that had to be the remains of the pilot and company co-owner, Keith Manheim. There were other remains, from the body of the plane but frustratingly they could not say how many passengers had been onboard as the plane was small and there were no legal requirements for a passenger manifest for such a charter.

Beside her Doug took copious old-school shorthand notes and she kept finding her eyes drifting to him.

Wondering what he was scribbling away at, his code completely indecipherable to her now.

When he spoke she had an excuse to watch him, tilting her chin upwards, and nearly forgetting that there were others in the room with them.

DB confirmed that NTSB had secured the scene and that all efforts were being made to identify these unknown victims. Nick and David had been sent out to the crash site to recover the bodies; Morgan and Greg were out there to collect what remained of the passengers personal effects.

"What about the Black Box?" she asked, turning to look at Doug again.

"Still haven't recovered it. I was about to head back to the site, could use some help?" Doug asked, tilting his head questioningly and she realised he was watching her just as intently, attempting to decode her too, and a long moment passed as she felt the corner of her mouth lift just slightly at the prospect of chasing the clues with him.

"The two of you have worked together before, you probably have your own shorthand," DB's uncanny words shattered her concentration and she turned her attention towards him and out of the corner of her eye she saw Doug turn too, in sync with her motions. "It's a good idea." DB continued, "Alright, let's get to work, a lot of eyes on this, we need answers."

She nodded, realising in that moment, that Finn was smiling at her in a very knowing way. That, I'm on to you and your past relationship kind of way, just the kind of look she herself had eyed Finn with in Seattle recently.

And she realised in that moment just how obvious her inability to stop staring was making the history between she and Doug, and that if Finn had so easily guessed their secret, that Doug must realise that she was giving the game away too, one look at him and his sheepish grin as they left the room confirmed it.

She bit down her groan.

She really did need to remember that she worked with trained investigators and that she had to be more careful if she wanted to keep her secrets just that.

000000

Heaving her kit from the locker, a faint flutter caught her attention, a rectangle stirred into flight by the removal of her belongings.

She watched it spiral before coming to land face down on the ground at her feet.

It was the photograph which had once been tacked to the inside of her locker; the picture had been missing for several weeks. The tape must have dried out, allowing it to fall. She had known it would return eventually, nothing disappeared from a sealed locker, but had never found time to search for it.

Placing her kit on the bench she stooped and collected it from the floor, holding the precious item in her hand for a second. White-side up.

Before placing it back on the shelf it had fallen from, without turning it over.

Instead reaching for her CSI SIDLE vest, and then her gun, holstering it securely on her belt.

"Ready to roll?"

Doug's voice from the doorway brought her attention back from the picture.

"Just about."

"Just like old times, right?" His voice was filled with his smile.

She had to laugh, despite herself.

"_Very_ old times."

She closed the door to her locker. Waiting for the delve into the personal that was clearly on the horizon.

He cleared his throat, in that way he used to when he had something to ask that he knew he perhaps shouldn't.

"So, I hear you married your boss? What's his name again?"

Her mind skipped back to the fallen photograph.

"Gil" her chin tilted up, ready to hear whatever response he gave, remembering with an age old pang the rapid decline of the relationship between the two of them which had started the moment she met Dr. Gil Grissom.

"Right," his voice was tinged with a crisper edge than before, but his eyes still teased. "Grissom. Bug Guy."

Oh, he remembered alright. Yet, it was interesting to her that he must have asked someone about her to have learnt of her marriage. It was kind of nice to think he was still curious about her, considering all the years that had passed since she left San Francisco. And he must have asked or been told by someone as a wedding ring alone does not name a spouse, especially when she had kept her own name.

But two could play this game, she though back to the long, blonde, vacuous airhead he had rebounded with.

"Are you still married to whatshername?"

She remembered her name, and she knew they were not.

"Candy?"

How he could say that without laughing?

"Candy, right!"

She had to look down, to control her smile.

Yoga Instructor."

She could hear her own sarcasm and the _damn, I knew that, snap, _implied in her voice, but she could also hear and feel the rhythm of their banter taking her right back to her twenties.

"No, we crashed and burned years ago."

She again had to summon her resolve, looking away for a moment before looking back at him and managing a very sincere sounding, "I didn't see that coming."

But he knew her too well.

"Yeah you did!"

She moved towards him, ducking past at the very last moment as she shook her head and slowly muttered, "Just like old times."

Before finally, out of his view, allowing the smile to bloom.

000000

Their stay at the scene was short, when they arrived the team there had already recovered the Flight Recorder so within half an hour they were arriving back at the Lab.

Moving their evidence into one of the smaller rooms, flicking on a few of the desk lamps to light their way.

She carefully unpacked the battered red box and plugged in all the necessary leads, whilst he readied the software.

It looked like they might get something.

"Flight data recorder is intact. I wish we had the cockpit voice recorder too." She mused, thinking out loud.

"Yeah, join the club," he concentrated on connecting the other end of all the leads into the computer before him, "they're not required for smaller charters."

"Hey," he added, his tone turning wistful and conversational, "did you hear that the Rusty Nickel closed?"

She laughed and saw it make him smile.

God, that name brought back a million memories.

She had worked days back then, but slept just as little. She and Doug and several others had regularly hung out till the early hours in that little underground place, with nothing but cold beer and a pool table to recommend it. It had that old beer smell and sticky floors and no one ever used the bathrooms. The kind of place you were glad not to see in the harsh light of day, but they had been young, and still clinging onto the student way of life.

And her pools playing skills had been legendary.

Physics, the game was nothing but physics and she loved physics.

"Well, that's about time!"

She shifted in her chair, barely resisting hugging her knees to her chest at the endorphin nostalgia wave; instead she folded her hands placing them in her lap.

"That bar gave dives a bad name."

"What are you talking about? You loved that place!"

Damn, she had underestimated how well he could remember her.

Younger her had thrived on a place like that. The triumph of the win. Being just a little reckless.

"Yeah, you're right, I did love it."

She straightened her trousers, feeling older, fidgeting again, leaning back in her chair. Before rushing her next words.

"Right up until the moment that they kicked me out for life."

She saw him turn quickly to look at her, but kept her eyes forward, knowing that he knew exactly which night she meant.

Beers after shift had been chased by shots of tequila, numerous shots, then she had literally slaughtered him at pool, before finding great amusement standing around watching the next guys play and loudly commenting on how terrible they were compared to her. Leaning back against the wall, cockily suggesting how certain angles and vectors could improve their prowess, until one guy had finally snapped back about her. A split second of alcohol fuelled courage had found her up in his face, knocking his cue to the ground, and whilst Doug had tried to calm things, she had simply ignored him and slugged the crappy pool playing bastard, knocking him out cold. In what was probably not her finest hour, she may then have tried to take down Joe, the ex-army security guard who had intervened, until Doug had literally lifted her around the waist and carried her out, whilst she fought him all the way, loudly declaring that they couldn't ban her, and she was leaving.

Yeah, maybe she wasn't proud, but the adrenaline high had given them the best sex of their relationship that night, they had barely made it back to her tiny studio apartment and some pretty lucid remembrances of that encounter brought colour rushing to her cheeks. She daren't risk a glimpse at him to see if his memory of that night was as vivid as hers, instead she shifted in her seat again, cleared her throat and then pressed her lips together placing her hands on the table before her. The picture of innocence.

"They did do that." He admitted, and looked away and she had to wonder if her cheeks were as red as she imagined, hoping that the darkroom hid at least some of her sins, but she had little doubt what his memories of that night were.

"Yep."

But it was nice to think of those days.

"Okay, moving on," he said as quiet professionalism fell over them again, "so we have the primary flight display up."

"Should show us everything on the instrument panel," she replied, mainly to keep her attention focused and show she was listening and attempting to match his professionalism. Damn he was good at changing the subject.

"Seventeen minutes into the flight, airspeed is 250 knots, altitude is 29,800 feet and climbing, heading is 50 degrees. All normal. Looks like there is a slight decrease in cabin pressure. Pilot's turning around, making a descent. Looks like he is putting in vectors to return to the airport."

Both jumped back at that moment as a big red ALERT flashed up on the screen.

"What the hell just happened?! She gasped.

"Massive depressurisation," he read from the instrument panels. "30,000 feet, virtually no oxygen, temperature is 30 below."

"They were dead before they even hit the ground," she surmised.

"The plane just kept going. Vector entries kept it on course right into the ground."

"Barely missing the Mediterranean tower." She concluded.

He hummed in response. Well that was one mystery solved and several other mysteries posed.

"Why the depressurisation?" she asked thinking aloud. "Gunshot, maybe? We know there was a gun on board."

He shook his head, "Bullet hole alone wouldn't trigger that kind of event. This was instantaneous. Catastrophic."

"Like a bomb?" She suggested.

"Bomb would have taken out the avionics and hydraulics. Plane wouldn't have stayed on course."

She had missed this, this sparring over a theory.

"Alright, what's left then? Maybe a window blew out? Or a door? Whatever it is it had to fall to earth, right? Extrapolating from their position at the time of depressurisation, factoring their altitude and velocity, I mean I can zero in on their location."

She was breathless by the end.

And he was laughing, his eyes smiling.

"Always a physics major."

Oh yeah, he remembered that night at the Rusty Nickel alright.

She stared him down, but he did not flinch, continuing to smile.

"I'll tell you what," she declared laying down the gauntlet, "I'm going to take my physics and I'm going to find whatever fell out of your aeroplane."

"And what about me?" What do I do?"

There were those big blue puppy eyes she used to find it hard to resist.

"Well," she drew delight from drawing it out. "You're going to build me a plane."

Her smile was the final challenge.

And was mirrored right back at her.

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: All people, events and thoughts are borrowed or invented. Serious Spoilers for season 13, especially '_Risky Business Class_' and '_Dead Air'_. All familiar words were painstakingly transcribed the old fashioned way, play, pause, scribble, play, pause, scribble, play, pause, scribble, play, pause, scribble!

**Author Notes**: This chapter is dedicated to all those who read and reviewed the first, for taking a chance on another WIP from me! Thank You! It is lovely to see some familiar names and some new ones too!

I bet no one expected another chapter within a week! Well I aim to get this out of my head before we find out what might happen! I haven't enjoyed watching CSI as much for ages.

**Home is Where The Coded Notebook Is...**

_By Rianne_

Chapter Two.

It was impressive, her plane.

A full size fuselage, complete with seats.

She could tell he was proud of his reconstruction, although she suspected that he had overseen his team in its creation rather than being hands on, but thought it wise to keep those thoughts to herself.

True to her prediction her physics knowledge had once again kicked ass.

She had proudly arrived back at the Lab with the mystery item which had blown out of the plane.

The door.

Although she was a little less than proud that she had struggled to lift it; begrudgingly handing the task over to others. It soothed some that it had eventually taken two fully grown men to carry it in, despite the fact that it was missing a large portion of its reinforced window glass.

It had fit perfectly into his plane.

The missing piece of the puzzle.

She had found Doug sitting within the plane in one of the passenger seats in the cabin. Clearly trying to imagine the events. She could practically see the cogs in his mind whirring. He was concentrating so hard she had managed to sneak up on him. No mean feat in the heavy work boots she wore.

Once aware of her presence he stood, and she found herself face to face with him in the smaller than expected confines of the charter's cabin. Well nearly face to face, she had forgotten how tall he was.

Their job was now to figure out the chain of events.

"Well you found the door."

She noticed that he made no comment about her mighty physics knocking him on his ass. Cocky as ever.

"Still don't know what happened." He shrugged.

Oh right, of course it was up to her to figure that out too!

So be it. She never backed away from a challenge.

"Let's go with our gunshot theory." She spread her hands out into the small space of the cabin, screwing up her eyes to imagine it complete with the passengers, and flying through the air.

"We're travelling at 30 thousand feet. I'm Harrigan. I'm going to take over the plane and fly it into the Mediterranean."

"Payback for bankrupting you in one night at the tables." he agreed.

"I pull my nine mil."

Raising her right hand, she formed a gun, extending her index finger.

"I start for the cockpit."

She turned her upper body, aiming her fingertip towards the cockpit.

"One of the passengers sees you," he continued the role play, but she didn't miss the fact that he swallowed heavily before reaching out to touch her.

"Jane or John Doe," she suggested, ignoring him as if she needed to prove that she hadn't noticed the shift in the atmosphere of the room.

He stepped closer. Wrapping his left hand around the wrist of her gun hand. Larger grip completely encircling her.

"Tries to overpower you."

He was watching her closely, the intimacy in his gaze not lost on her, and so she kept her face averted.

Focusing on the case, the re-enactment, and the victims.

"And we struggle for the gun."

He stepped closer, his right arm coming around her, palm spreading across the centre of her lower back, left hand tightening around her wrist as she offered mock resistance.

Suddenly closer than she expected. Her face lifted to his as his forward movement rocked her back on her heels and their gaze held.

"Struggling," he complied. Eyes flaring the challenge.

Yet it wasn't. It wasn't struggling.

He almost swayed her, drawing her closer like they shared a slow dance.

Jostling her, their hips brushing.

Her free hand pressed against his right shoulder, to stand firm, but in a way that was more serious than her expression betrayed.

The flashlight in her grip preventing her from pressing her palm completely flat.

She heard herself clear her throat, her chin tilting up higher. Acknowledging his advance, and at the renewed eye contact she flashed back nearly a decade so rapidly she was surprised she didn't gasp aloud.

Gil before her instead of Doug.

Lost in the early hours of a long ago Vegas morning.

Holding her to the wall.

Fingers curled tight around her wrists.

Eyes brooding and dark.

Dilated.

In undeniable response to her unthinking provocation.

Pin me down.

And he had.

Her stomach dropping with a rush within her.

Finding pleasure in being so close.

Aroused and then disgusted.

A girl had died, raped and restrained and...

She blinked the memory away.

God, this was wrong.

She shouldn't be doing this. Standing like this.

Not with anyone.

Her head and her heart loved Gil.

Remembered and cherished their life together, despite how disappointed in him she felt right now.

And she saw in that moment that Doug read her discomfort in her eyes.

She couldn't work quickly enough to hide the flicker of realisation, of fear, of feeling so heartbreakingly lost and vulnerable.

This time was different. She wasn't young and single, she wasn't desperately trying to provoke the man she loved into admitting he had feelings for her.

She was married.

In love.

And the man before her, the Doug she used to know, would have respected that. Or at least she thought he would.

But she had no idea how deal with this. This awareness.

Not without suggesting that there was something still between them. Something to suspect. When that was the last thing she wanted to happen.

So she continued on.

Ignoring it.

Not even sure why.

Why she didn't push him back.

Why she remained swaying in his arms.

Feeling the solid warmth of his chest beneath her fingertips. His lower body coming to rest firmly against hers.

"And in that struggle the gun goes off. Hitting the cabin door." She managed to speak.

"Would explain the initial slow loss of cabin pressure." Came his seemingly unfazed reply, but his eyes were smiling.

He was still rocking them, in a near hypnotic motion, she could feel the entire length of him, and what she suspected were the beginnings of his more physical interest. He dipped his head, leaning closer and for a horrified moment she wondered if he might close the distance and kiss her.

And that was it.

That was enough.

Her free hand pressed against his shoulder. Not having to be physically forceful. She knew her expression spoke loudly.

Enough.

"And then Harrigan breaks free."

It was rapidly becoming awkward now. Her levels of discomfort rising with her questioning thoughts.

Had she encouraged him?

Her conscience panicked.

She couldn't deny she had flirted.

That his closeness had made her heart beat faster.

Her body had craved the nearness of another, the intimacy and warmth.

Clearing her throat she pushed him a step backward.

"Commanders the plane." She said aloud, taking charge of the present too.

Feeling the chill air conditioned space flood over her flustered body as a welcome replacement for the heat of him.

God, what had he been thinking getting that close to her?

In the Lab?

Where everyone knew she was married?

Where everyone suspected that Doug was her ex?

She couldn't imagine that the men in the cockpit had been that physically intimate in their struggle. That certainly wasn't any kind of valid excuse.

And more importantly what was she thinking letting herself into this situation?

She had no one to blame but herself.

The thought of Gil seeing her behave like that.

Ashamed she felt the flood of panic rising again, rushing up to threaten the usually impeccably controlled facade she showed the world.

She turned away towards the cockpit, clearing her mind of everything but the case.

"Pilot only has time to radio once and turns the plane around."

Her body was betraying her own inner struggle for control, her words breathless, her fingers trembling restlessly as she returned to large gestures to keep the space clear in front of her.

But there was nothing she could do, she had to continue or he would know he nearly succeeded.

"Which was what Harrigan wanted anyway. To return to Vegas on a suicide mission." Doug spoke.

Frowning she agreed, "Yeah, what he doesn't realise is the cabin door is already compromised."

Her voice was stronger, more convincing.

"Bullet must have hit the door somewhere," he suggested, turning away to see.

"I'm not seeing anything." The door was undamaged, except for the missing glass. "No holes, no marks."

"Must be missing something."

She opened her mouth to glare at him, finding more ammunition than she expected to convince her expression.

"Just saying!"

He was laughing at her, smug smile plastered across his face. Behaving like the last few minutes hadn't challenged his world.

And really it hadn't.

He had nothing to lose.

She had everything.

That added venom to her glare as she suggested that, "maybe the bullet hit the door seal and compromised it?"

They moved together outside of the plane, flicking on the flashlight she held, she leant close to the compromised door. Tracing the seal with the beam of light she traversed the rectangle frame before pausing at a definite suspect.

"I got something."

She felt him move in closer to view over her right shoulder.

"Bullet hole?"He queried.

"No, but I think our inside job just turned into an outside job."

His flashlight beam joined hers, illuminating the spot further as he bent for an even closer look.

"Tool marks," he agreed near her ear, "on the outside edge. This door was tampered with before the plane ever took off."

He straightened.

"Sabotage?" She suggested, returning to her full height.

He tilted his head in acknowledgment, "we've been looking at this the wrong way."

"Maybe the motive wasn't hijacking. Maybe it was straight-up murder."

Man, she couldn't have sounded more like her absent husband if she tried.

**000000**

Doug excused himself to go update Russell and she was relieved. A few minutes to herself in the quiet of a lab as she prepared to make a microseal cast of the dints the tool of sabotage had made on the plane door.

It was only in the sudden onset of silence that she realised she had been so busy over the last few hours that she hadn't checked her phone. Hadn't even thought to check.

But she returned it to her pocket only seconds after removing it, disappointed.

No calls.

She had barely managed to add all the ingredients together to make the microseal to mould when the clearing of a throat relieved her of her precious silence.

Hodges.

Damn.

"The NTSB asked me to examine the door for trace before you started." He announced as he looked expectantly at her, waiting for her to take a step back from the door, and allow him access to the evidence, certainly not waiting for her permission.

He couldn't seem to help himself; she could never understand how David Hodges managed to irritate so many people. She didn't think it was an intentional thing. He seemed to have a pretty good heart in there somewhere, but damn he was infuriating!

Each noise he made unpacking his equipment deepened the furrows of her frown as she mixed away and continued to as she filled the applicator with the substance.

She knew he had found something from the weird little noise of delight he made.

"Didn't see this from the outside of the door, must have got wedged in the seal." He told her gleefully, withdrawing the find, and out of the corner of her eye she saw him hold aloft a small piece of a bright neon green substance. She didn't bother to turn and look. Her patience to get on and create her mould wearing pretty thin.

"Got paint trace from what I assume is our outil du sabotage."

She rolled her eyes, before glaring at him, and then regretted it as her head began to hurt.

Hodges did walk away then, declaring the door free, "It's all yours."

Yet, he did not leave as she had hoped, merely moved to the other end of the table with his evidence and with his job done now, and his need for healthy concentration removed he started to talk. Just as she needed to concentrate and apply the microseal.

"So, this NTSB guy, Wilson, seems like a good sort?"

She barely glanced his way, her focus on the task of spreading the mixture evenly and smoothly.

Dimly aware of where this conversation was going, and that Hodges was not only the biggest gossip in the building, he was also the first person who might attempt to contact Gil.

Her stomach clenched.

But Hodges was still awaiting an answer and it seemed wrong to lie so she answered with a genuine, "he is."

Of course that wasn't enough, was it and his next query came right on the heels of her response.

"When you guys worked together in Frisco," he waved his hand in an odd gesture which attracted her peripheral attention. "Were you a...close?"

It was easy actually to talk about the time she spent working with Doug, they had previously always managed to be professional in work time.

Until now, her conscience taunted her.

"Well it was a pretty lengthy investigation; we spent a lot of time together." She tossed out, hoping that he would go away soon. Not even bothering to look up as she frowned at the slow progress she was making.

She could hear his pen scratching away against his clipboard and prayed to anyone who would listen that he had finished talking, but of course he hadn't.

She saw him nod ruminating over her comment, "hmmm, well there's spending time together, and then there is spending time together," she had to bite down her anger at what his tone was definitely implying.

Despite every cell of her being reminding her that it was true. She and Doug had once been together. But it was her past, her life and she shouldn't have to talk it out with anyone she didn't want to talk about it with.

Instead she glared straight at him with a look which usually sent him scurrying.

She felt her right eyebrow twitch.

"What are you getting at Hodges?"

She sounded pretty damn angry when she heard herself. Not helping.

"I'm not getting at anything." He was shaking his head, his tone one of innocence, tinged with a little edge of the defensive. As if no one had accused him of snooping before.

Still irritated she placed her tool down on the desk, done for now, just awaiting the microseal's allotted drying time.

"How's it going in here?"

Doug's voice took her by surprise and her head dipped, pretending to examine her work as her mind quickly tried to ascertain how long he had been there, how much he might have heard.

She shifted the heating device closer to the microseal making sure if was completely dry.

"Well my microseal is ready." She announced, as if all were normal.

She carefully peeled the rust coloured stretch of matter from the metal. Doug leaning over to examine what she had produced.

"Good, good cast. No bubbles. You can see the tool marks" Doug told her, as if she hadn't done a thousand of these before. She said nothing.

"Helps if you get in close doesn't it."

Hodges implying words rang loudly around the room.

If looks could kill he would have been bursting into flames right now.

But beside her she noticed that Doug said nothing, but gave Hodges a similar stare, before bringing the attention right back to the case.

"Is that paint transfer?" Doug asked the suddenly fretting trace tech.

"Indeed." Hodges looked more and more uncomfortable.

Before Doug delivered a kicker which caused her to bite her own lip.

"Don't you have like a machine to go put that in?"

The edge to his voice was strong, and she almost felt as if he were acting protective of her. Trying to shelter her from Hodges and his insinuations. She could almost see the testosterone rising from his chest.

Her only thought was that he must have overheard at least some of the conversation from outside the room, which was humiliating to say the least.

Hodges finally taking the hint looked up to the sky and then down again, "Say no more." He waved the sample, "threes a crowd."

At this very moment she very clearly understood why people hated David Hodges.

She saw Doug swallow, his Adams apple bobbed, and her own cheeks were burning with a mixture of shame and mortification.

Nothing could make this worse right now.

Not even Hodges waving, saying, "come and knock on my door," and then walking right into the red portable metal shelving kit as he left.

Infinitely cool. Yeah.

"What's his problem?" Doug asked, in what was obviously an attempt to clear the air.

She had been attempting to ignore her surroundings, but at this lifted her face to his, shaking her head, "don't even get me started."

The uncool dissing the uncoolest.

He joined her at the lit magnifying glass, his right shoulder pressing against her left so he could see and she wasn't sure if he did it on purpose or not. She found herself thinking back to all those times she had done a similar thing with Gil.

On purpose.

Just to be near him.

"These marks are paired; I'm thinking that the tool might have been two pronged." She said, examining the microseal imprint again.

"Can you tell what kind of tool it was?"

"No." She admitted dismissively wrinkling her eyes. "But between the microseal cast and the paint chips if we find it, we should get a match."

"You know, whoever tampered with this cabin door knew exactly what they were doing. Too much damage and the plane wouldn't have pressurised at all."

She nodded at him, finding herself watching his lips move.

"Setting off a warning light in the cabin, the pilot would have turned the plane around immediately,"

"Too little damage would have had no effect at all." He agreed.

"Saboteur had to get it just right."

He was looking down at her very closely. Studying her.

"Suggests an intimate knowledge of the plane." He concluded nodding.

And she took the opportunity to study him as he considered her.

Noticing his beard, his curls, his blue eyes, his dress sense, in a different light.

She had to face facts.

These were all familiar attributes.

Doug Wilson may have been her ex boyfriend pre Gil Grissom, and be younger, but he somehow managed to remind her of him.

Of what Gil had been like when she first met him.

Cheeky, inspiring, flirty, intense, smart, challenging, protective, able to keep up with her, gentle.

She had never realised that she might have a type before.

Had she fallen for Gil because he was similar to Doug, and could offer her all the things Doug could and even more?

More intelligence, more maturity, real love?

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** All people, events and thoughts are borrowed or invented. Serious Spoilers for season 13, especially '_Risky Business Class_' and '_Dead Air'_. All familiar words were painstakingly transcribed the old fashioned way, play, pause, scribble, play, pause, scribble, play, pause, scribble, play, pause, scribble!

**Author Notes**: I will say that it bothers me that Sara has her husband in her phone under the name of Gil Grissom! I know it's for those occasional viewers, but argh!

Home Is Where The Coded Notebook Is...

By Rianne

_Chapter Three._

The two women worked quietly side by side.

Sara selected the different tools, testing them out by eye to gauge their match to her microseal.

Beside her Finn dusted the ones she had yet to check for fingerprints, but they were so far coming up clean.

The sound of her cell phone vibrating against the desk filled the air.

She disguised her flinch by reaching for another tool.

Her heart was suddenly in her throat.

Was it?

Embarrassed, she glanced at the phone but continued working and pretended to ignore it, literally feeling the degrees of red flushing her cheeks increase.

It was!

But the last thing she could do right now was talk to him!

A million guilty thoughts filled her head, unprovoked or not.

It was true that nothing had happened, but she had thought about it. There was no denying it.

That settled uneasily in her stomach.

Her entire body felt hot, flustered, confused. Her fingers sweaty within her latex gloves.

Hopefully Finn would just accept that she thought it unprofessional to answer her phone for a personal call whilst she was at work, instead of suspecting the utter panic that had roared through her at the sight of his name flashing up at her.

"You can take that, really, I'll come back." Finn sounded so nice, normal, and friendly.

Damn her! Why couldn't she be bitchy like Catherine used to be in their early days working together!

"No that's alright," her voice was stuttering, she risked another glance at the call she had waited over a week for, recognising the insanity of it all. "I'll, I'll call him back later."

She was surprised she could hear her own voice over the pounding of her tell tale heart.

If her heart could talk it would shout of anger, a little hurt, and frustration that she wasn't alone right now. It made things so many times worse to know that her very private struggle was being witnessed by someone else. Someone she liked and had begun to respect, but still did not know all that well.

She could feel Finn's gaze on her, felt her colleagues sweeping investigation of her profile, the other woman's pitying, sad eyes. She knew they were concerned, that all her colleagues had noticed a difference in her behaviour.

It filled the air with tension as the last vibration ebbed. Making the room shrink.

"If you ever feel like talking."

The offer was kindly bestowed and she was tempted. Tilting her face to gauge the sincerity in the other woman's expression. She hadn't shared conversation with another woman about her life in such a long time.

It was a sad comment on her existence that such an enquiry had caused her to stumble so.

Finding nothing disingenuous about the gesture she dipped her face, touched at the offer.

"Did you ever try the long distance thing?" She threw out, trying to emulate cool and together, attempting flippant.

"No! But I think it would have helped my relationship with husband number two!" Came the equally light hearted reply.

And it helped.

Brought a smile to her face.

"Ah, the Seattle ex." She guessed.

"Yeah," Finn confirmed with a sly grin.

They both continued to work as Sara's thoughts strayed to the nicer aspects of long distance, the little things left behind for her to find, the messages sent for the first few days of his absence, and the giddiness she always felt at his return.

Not counting their reunions in which she usually felt a lot more than giddy. More like sated, relaxed, sexy, and more than a little happy!

She leant over the table to select her next prospective tool.

"What was that like, seeing him again?"

"It was weird," Finn admitted, her voice filled with her smile which she acknowledged with a nod. "And then it wasn't."

She had to smile at the wonder-filled air to her colleague's voice.

"You know I wondered why you took a later flight."

Yeah, that confirmed a few things.

"What about your NTSB guy?"

Her stomach fluttered at the question and the implications of the teasing tone with which it was delivered.

But she did not disguise her grin of assent, knowing full well that she couldn't lie to Finn or deny all knowledge as she had with Hodges.

She had been far too obvious in her behaviour already, and you know what, she saw no harm in a little honesty.

Doug was gorgeous and smart and they had dated. Before she was married.

She saw no shame there.

"Very weird!"

They both laughed with shared understanding.

This was nice. She felt easier. It was good to be able to talk about her relationships after all the time she had spent sworn into secrecy by the boss/subordinate aspect of her early relationship with Gil. Sometimes the secrecy had been fun, sultry glances, stolen kisses, and eye sex across the break room table! But other times, when Catherine had made suggestions about Gil's relations with other women, who shall not be named, and she had been unable to speak up, it had been a heartache.

"Gonna stay that way?"

Finn's words instantly changed the mood in the room.

A suggestion so abrupt she felt a little unsteady on her feet and suddenly completely out of her depth in this conversation. The realisation reaching her that the woman beside her was not like her.

She was married, not single and free to play like Finn.

Her morals were clear.

The promises she had made were sound.

But she had to answer; this woman was waiting for her to.

So she vagued it up.

"It has too, right?"

Using words that from anyone else would have stood a chance of sounding non-committal and possibly even cool.

But recognising that her own tone had lowered, that she had spoken more softly. A giant admission of her unease and also a quiet expression that feeling nostalgia for an old flame felt good in small doses, even if you had no intention of doing anything about it in the present.

Her relationship with Doug hadn't been long term, but she also hadn't had that many relationships and it was nice to think that at least in this one instance they had remained friends.

But after that suggestion this conversation was definitely over. No more sharing today.

And by a stroke of luck she reached for just the right tool and found an eye clean match to her Microseal imprint.

"This looks promising, similar tools marks as the sabotage we found on the cabin door. Can you pass me the paint chips that Hodges found?"

"Sure." Came the response with the paint chips handed over.

"Thanks" she murmured, already unrolling the curled paint chip and stretching it out to fit almost perfectly into the missing ridge.

"Got a physical match." She announced.

"Got a murder weapon." Finn confirmed.

Greg's voice broke her focus as he stepped into the room. "But not a murder suspect. Hal the mechanic's alibi checked out. Eye in the sky at the lucky stakes casino in Laughlin had him at the tables three nights ago."

"So Hal's off the hook." She said nodding, and Greg returned the action.

"But somebody helped themselves to his tools."

Finn agreed, "Yep, a someone who had access to the airport. Surveillance hasn't come in yet, but maybe we'll get lucky, find our killer on it."

But Greg had more, "well in the meantime we have a lead on our other John Doe, the gun is not registered to Harrigan like we thought, but it is actually registered to a Geoffrey Forsyth, he's a partner in a law firm downtown. Brass called the office and apparently Forsyth wasn't on the plane."

"Maybe he knows who was." She mused, watching as Greg and Finn gathered their things to go.

**000000**

The call from Russell had been a curious one. They had found the pilot. Floating in a ladies pool in Henderson. So the body that they had all be assuming was the pilot, wasn't. He was yet another John Doe. Bringing the passenger manifest for the charter to five victims.

Hearing this she and Doug headed back to the plane he had made.

She noticed with some curiosity that one side of the walls had been drawn back a few paces. Something she noticed, with a mixture of relief at not being put in the situation of being so enclosed with Doug again, and a curiosity that perhaps he had instructed his guys to move the walls for the very same reason.

"So we got five people on the plane." She began, shaking off her other thoughts to focus on the case.

"If our pilot Keith Manheim is at the controls then our mystery man from the cockpit wreckage must have been sitting in the co-pilots seat." Doug suggested.

She tilted her head to the left to try and envisage this.

"Two in front three in back, 17 minute mark we have the slow loss of cabin pressure." Doug plotted the revised timeline for them both.

He pointed to the Pilots seat, "Manheim radios he's turning around."

"Maybe the pilot wants to check something out? Maybe that's why he gets up out of his seat?" She supposed.

"Yeah, but not before Manheim enters in the vector coordinated for a return, making a slow descent."

They both paused a few moments to imagine the pilot standing and walking into main cabin of plane.

"Two seconds later, door blows out." Doug brought them right back on track.

Just in time to imagine the pilot being sucked right out of the gaping hole left behind. Hearing his screams and noticing that there was a great possibility he hit his head on door frame on the way out.

"And Manheim gets sucked out the plane door." She continues, reaching into her pocket for her phone. "Doc Robbins said he had a crescent shaped head wound."

She searched through her recent messages to pull up the autopsy picture he had sent her. Finding it quickly she looked from the image to the doorway, to confirm.

Then she held the screen up so he could see.

She felt rather than heard Doug move closer and fought to control her reaction as his warm palm came up to support hers and move the screen nearer to him for closer inspection.

His touch was gentle.

"Looks like he hit his head on the way out." He murmured, just heard above her traitorously loud heartbeat.

Trying to focus on the case she hummed in agreement pointing to the matching curvature of the door and which seamlessly curved along the same lines as the contusion on the pilots head. "Well, one mystery solved."

"One step at a time." He teased back.

"Hey Guys!"

Greg's voice made her jump for the second time in as many hours.

The sudden stiffening of her spine as she damn near leaped away from Doug and his touch was only made worse by the look of pure guilt she knew must be clear across her far too easily read face.

Greg didn't make any reaction, he continued to fill them in, "Henry ran the DNA from our mystery man through CODIS and he got a hit, a parole names Thurston Mayfield – aka Thor."

But the longer he spoke for, the more closely he seemed to examine her, and then start to watch them both warily and as their tension and awareness of his scrutiny grew the guiltier they looked and the harder he seemed to glare at Doug.

Until she wanted to scream that they had done nothing!

Nothing at all!

Except being attracted to each other which damn it was only natural!

Focus woman!

"Thor?" the raised brows were enough, until Greg withdrew the poster he had brought with him which depicted a very toned, very shirtless, man.

"Specialised in writing phoney cheques and recently was a dancer in an all male review. The club is just two blocks from the executive airport."Greg confirmed.

Personal drama forgotten at the scent of a lead, she turned to Doug and found him smiling back at her as equally intrigued.

Greg continued to talk, delivering the final piece of important information, "Brass talked to the owner, turns out Thor quit last week, he said he was moving in with his new boyfriend, Keith Manheim."

"Well that will explain why Thor was sitting up front in the cockpit." Doug guessed.

"Keith was flying his new boyfriend home to Chicago to meet the folks." She wasn't sure why she thought that was sweet; her first meeting with Gil's Mother had gone significantly worse than she had hoped for.

"And if Keith's partner Dalton found out about it? Might be reason enough to want them both dead?" Greg left them hanging with this new information.

**000000**

The surveillance tapes arriving from the airport came at a great time.

She could escape to watch them in one of the smaller booths, have some real time to herself. Time when the only thing to tax her brain was what was happening on the screen before her.

God it was dull.

And it was also silent.

Silence tended to make her uneasy these days.

That and being alone and here she was, alone again.

But she hadn't dared check her phone to see if he had left her a message when she had, and she had to admit it, even just silently to herself, had ignored his call.

Three days ago it would have been a shining beacon that would have illuminated her day.

But with this new perspective she could also see herself sliding back into habits of the past.

She had been reminded of who she was before she had ever met the Great Gil Grissom.

In a time where her thoughts were her own, where she didn't need anyone to validate her beliefs or her self worth.

She was taking steps backwards, back into the days when a single word from him, a simple smile was the pinnacle of achievement. Back to when she drank herself to sleep when he refused her advances. To when she challenged suspects as if she were invincible.

That seemed so long ago, almost another life and yet these behaviour patterns were emerging again. Too much work, too little sleep.

And loneliness.

Doug had eased that some, in a way that the guys, Nick, Greg, and Warrick rest his soul, had in the past. Yet failed to offer now.

Finn and even Russell had shown more interest than the guys.

Did they still feel weird that she had married Grissom? That she had excluded them for so long by keeping their relationship a secret? Did they feel cheated, lied too?

Yet these last few hours with Doug had reminded her of the camaraderie that they used to share.

They used to tease, challenge, flirt.

Flirt.

Yeah, she had always flirted with the boys, liking the fact that they respected her as smart and maybe not pretty but at least cute. It had been all in good fun, they were her friends.

But she could see now that others may not realise she was just playing, especially if those others were ex boyfriends.

Doug had definitely looked at her with genuine interest earlier and had been purposeful in the way he had extended their physical contact.

God, this was why she needed to be around people and given interesting work to do... and think of the devil and he shall appear.

She looked up to see Doug arrive in the doorway.

"Looks like you got the airport surveillance."

Talk about stating the obvious.

"Yeah," she told him as he stepped forward and held out one of two paper coffee cups to her.

"Sugar, no cream." He announced.

She took it, smiling politely. "Thanks."

She wouldn't tell him that she preferred fruit tea these days, had opted for it as part of a healthier lifestyle and because caffeine at this time of night made her far too wired and she really was wired enough right now.

She placed the cup onto the desk.

"Anything?" he queried.

"Nothing yet, But I did confirm Burke refuelling the plane and doing a safety check two hours before takeoff. He never touched the plane door and so far no one else has touched the plane."

She looked back to the screen, keeping up her monitoring.

She could feel him watching her profile and she got that feeling again, the one she had felt earlier in the locker room when she had known he was going to ask her personal questions about her life.

"Listen Sara, I was just wondering if I could buy you and Grissom dinner tonight?"

Bang.

She couldn't have tried to look less surprised as she turned to him. She just didn't have it in her to control it anymore.

He was pushing his look like she didn't know what.

Did he seriously think that she would ever say yes to a situation like that?

The unbelievable awkwardness of the idea of she, Gil and Doug going out for a meal together and making elegant small talk!

She was laughing inside, she really was, it was either that or crying hysterically.

It was insane.

Gil only vaguely knew she had an ex called Doug from her time in Frisco.

Why didn't they just invite Gil's ex Julia and Gil's Mother along too! Make it a party!

"You guys pick the place," he carried on digging his hole bigger and bigger.

She turned away, unable to look at him any longer. Shaking her head incredulously, before pressing her lips into a thin line.

"NTSB picks up the tab, I'm a hell of a third wheel?" He would reach Australia soon if he kept digging.

Her pleasant mood was dying now, along with her patience.

She hadn't seen her husband in so long that that she certainly wouldn't want any third wheel between then, she wouldn't even want any clothing between them she had missed him so much.

But she was just being crazy, it must be catching.

She knew that they needed to talk, to patch up their problems. That their next meeting would be incredibly hard.

Although the idea of wordlessly tumbling into his arms and just loosing herself with him first was a much more desirable idea than starting with the heartrending conversation she knew they needed to have.

"Actually, Gil's out of town."

And to her disbelief she felt him hitch closer before he suggested, "Okay, just the two of us then?"

She swore to God.

He had always been one to try it on, but this was too much. Too far.

If she had expected more respect before she was out of luck now. He was in his forties for God's sake, not his twenties.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

She turned sharply to look at him.

"Do this."

Her voice was stronger now, had a sharper edge.

Upset that she was beginning to change the way she thought about him and not for the better. Sad that his behaviour was beginning to taint her pleasant memories of him.

"Okay,"

But he is mocking her. And she turns away, still a little unable to believe him.

"But if everything is good between you two, and I know you Sara and I'm getting the feeling that it isn't."

That was it.

Damn well it.

Her head snapped round as she turned to glare at him in incredulous anger.

He knows her?

Knew her more like.

Past Tense.

14 long years ago.

How dare he!

"Then I understand." He added, rubbing in the salt to the wound he had slashed her with.

"Everything's great." She ground out.

She sounded like she was lying.

She was lying.

He knew. She knew. They both knew. Her reaction and defensiveness outing her.

He needed to stop now.

"Okay," he said softly, sounding only mildly disappointed as he settled his chin upon his hands.

And in that moment she wondered.

He had always had a different way about him, went about things in a way others found totally illogical.

Had he found out from someone? Had he overheard rumours, or been told flat out by someone like Hodges that people suspected her marriage was in trouble?

Was this his way of coaxing her into talking about it?

Was this his equivalent of Finn commiserating about ex's and long distance lovers?

Had he invited her out to give her time to enjoy herself and express her fears in hours long conversations like they used to share?

She just couldn't think about any of it anymore, her head was screaming.

She kept her focus on the surveillance tape.

Nearly begging for something to happen.

And again her prayers were answered.

"Fuel truck, stopping in front of the plane. Right in front of the cabin door."

"What's he doing? They already refuelled. The guys getting out of the truck." Doug replied, acting as if all were normal again.

But it is not.

She fast forwarded the tape, wishing she had that option in real life.

To skip the uncomfortable moments.

Relive the best bits over and over.

"He was only there for two minutes, is that enough time to sabotage a plane?" She thinks it is, but he is the expert.

"Yes it is. Can you get a better look at the driver?"

She played around with a few settings.

"I can't bring up a face, but look at this."

She highlighted a section, enlarging the image.

"Beaufort aero club badge, those are Hal's overalls." He said taking the words right out of her mouth.

"And we know that Hal was out of town." She added.

"So whoever borrowed his tools, borrowed his clothes as well." He confirmed.

Yet again, another mystery solved, many others posed.

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** All people, events and thoughts are borrowed or invented. Serious Spoilers for season 13, especially '_Risky Business Class_' and '_Dead Air'_. All familiar words were painstakingly transcribed the old fashioned way, play, pause, scribble, play, pause, scribble, play, pause, scribble, play, pause, scribble!

**Author Notes:** Thank you to all who are still following this – more personal replies to come; I promise!

Home Is Where The Coded Notebook Is...

By Rianne.

_Chapter Four._

It was all resolved a lot quicker than she had anticipated.

Justice, for what it was worth, had been served for those who had died before they fell from the sky.

All the loose ends were getting tied up.

Except for hers.

For the last few hours her phone had been silent.

He hadn't tried to call again.

He hadn't left a message when she hadn't answered this time.

A first.

She could not bring herself to try again.

Besides she had work to do.

And their case had one more loose tie to bind before it was over.

Doug.

She couldn't just ignore him.

She would have to make some kind of effort, to say something, even if it was just a simple goodbye.

She couldn't avoid the fact that his being here had been unsettling and disruptive. That he and his behaviour and her responses to it had added a little more emotional anxiety to her already too fretful personal life.

But what do you say?

Everything she thought of had too much that could be misconstrued. Millions of words in her language and yet she struggled to create a string of them that was even remotely close to right.

Everything sounded like it contained hidden meanings or double levels or provoked misunderstandings. There were no completely clear sentences.

She had opened her mouth to speak several times as she had accompanied him to pick up his belongings from the Lab.

Her last attempt to speak had been thwarted by the trill of his cell phone and by the sounds of it a call to another crash site.

He continued to ascertain information as they walked together towards the exit.

"Alright I'll see you in a bit." He told his caller, before he closed the phone, sliding it into his pocket as he came to a halt before her.

"Cargo plane, San Jose, All hands on deck." He explained, as if he too was lost for something to say as he must have known that walking beside him she had heard most of the call.

Without the focus of walking, he looked shifty, like he was aware of her growing unease and felt it too.

The tension between them was increasing. They could both feel it. It was time.

Time for him to leave and there was no escaping the fact that their goodbye was going to be horrendously self-conscious.

She had shoved her hands in her pockets to keep them still.

Rocking on her heels trying to keep her balance.

"No rest for the NTSB." She said, _or the wicked_, she thought, as she acknowledged to herself that she would miss him.

Doug smiled, and she returned it.

"No," he admitted with a shrug.

She would miss his humour, his challenges, and if she were completely honest, even his flirting.

Vestiges of guilt made her swallow.

She shouldn't hate herself for flirting. It was only a human response.

But she could see the difference now.

She hadn't been flirting with someone who was just a friend. Doug was her ex, someone she had once been intimate with and her temporary colleague. Someone who once had cared for her more than he had admitted at the time, and she suspected that he still did.

She understood the difference.

Understood where her responses might have come from.

From her sadness, loneliness, longing.

But also because he reminded her of what she was missing.

He reminded her of what she used to share with Gil.

Brought back the nights when coming to work was an excitement, because she never knew what might happen; if he would honour her with praise, a smile, or if he would crush her with a single look, raised brow, extended silence.

Unpredictable, but one thing was guaranteed, she would _feel_ when she saw him.

But she didn't feel for Doug. Not anymore. Not anything like she felt for Gil.

Doug was still smiling.

Still watching her with that boyish, nostalgia filled gaze.

Awkward, and increasingly self conscious, her cheeks starting to flush as he continued to smile down at her, she wondered what was going on in his head.

If he was debating if he might be allowed to hug her? Or maybe kiss her cheek?

It was more nerve wracking than stepping through egg shells or the shards of a broken plate.

"So I guess this is it." He said, sounding genuinely sad.

"Yeah," came her non-committal reply, but for her it was sadness tinged with relief, she finally understood, and it surprised her.

He was going now and her life would be less complicated.

"Listen, about my dinner offer."

He sounded so contrite and uncomfortable that she nearly forgave him.

But not quite.

Instead she found herself turning her face away as she murmured, "Oh." Shaking her head and pretending that it had all meant nothing.

He was leaving now.

What did it matter if she spoke in lies and silence?

"It's just that, seeing you again brought back a lot of good memories Sara."

She couldn't deny that, but confirmed it only with a smile.

There were good memories.

But her life with Gil had made them fade into the past.

"Honestly, it's kind of annoying how great you look."

Ha! Bastard, he was always one with the backhanded compliments.

But he had made her laugh, her cheeks flushing without her permission as she murmured, "Thanks,"  
and her flustered response made him laugh too.

He turned serious then, cloudy blue eyes contemplating her, "I'm glad things worked out for you."

That gave her a start. She saw him gauge her as she tried to restrain her troubled expression, but knew her eyes told all.

He didn't know her past. Of her childhood.

Not like Gil did.

But he didn't know her present either and yet he sensed her unease in it.

Was this what she wanted from her life with Gil when she said 'I Do'?

A life on two separate continents, missed calls and longing?

And a husband who wasn't fixing that?

No.

It hadn't exactly worked out for her.

She needed to see Gil, to speak with him. To tell him her fears, her dreams, her every day thoughts.

To have him recognise that she wasn't doing so great right now.

To tell him of her unhappiness.

That she wanted them to work out a way to change this. A way which suited both of them.

Yet she couldn't seem to build up the courage.

She used to be so forward, so strong and outspoken.

Her smile had rapidly faded.

"You deserve it" Doug confirmed, in a reverent whisper.

That was it, her lip nearly quivered.

She wanted to hug the man before her.

Not for being her ex, not for winding her sky high.

But for being here.

For noticing.

For caring.

But she had to let him go now.

"Give my regards to the Bay."

In her mind's eye she saw the rushing waves tossed in the Bay breeze as if she were standing back in her past, the way she always had when she remembered Doug and her time in San Francisco.

"Will do."

Then he stepped closer, sweeping her up into his arms.

And her sad heart stumbled.

Feeling the warmth of his body, the scent of his skin, the strength beneath the gentle way he embraced her.

But this wasn't what she wanted.

He wasn't Gil.

The feel was wrong, the scent, the fact that Gil's heart always beat a little faster when he held her.

She turned her face away as she pressed it to his shoulder.

Painfully aware of her body language. It felt less intimate that way.

Trying to swallow down the rising wave of conflicted emotions.

But this man in her arms was good.

Troublesome, but inherently good.

And he honestly wanted nothing but the best for her.

She closed her eyes, just for a moment. Allowing herself to get lost in the comfort he offered.

Then she squeezed him tight. Just once.

In thanks.

Then she stepped away.

Conscious that her emotions were shimmering very close to the surface.

That one false breath and she might find herself sobbing in the reception.

She managed to hold her smile, or what passed for one, as he gave her one last nod, before turning away.

And she watched, watched until he had reached the horizon and then turned left and vanished.

Her heart heavier, like she had lost a friend.

**000000**

Why hadn't he called?

She had checked her phone on the way out of the Lab.

Nothing.

Why?

Why had she thought he might?

She had no idea what she would say to him, not without the volcanic eruption of tremulous emotion that was building inside her bursting forth, but she still wanted to know that he had tried.

Why had she given into hoping again?

The whys followed her home.

Questioning her whilst she kicked off her boots, checked the mail (nothing) checked the house phone (nothing) even checked her email (nothing – well nothing from him anyway.)

They continued to niggle whilst she made some food, whilst she pushed it around her plate, whilst she threw it away nearly untouched.

They worried her stomach whilst she stood in the shower; her shoulders slumped, whilst she pretended she didn't keep eyeing the dark black profile of her phone on the side of the sink through the mottled glass of the screen door.

And still further the whys danced along her shredded emotions whilst she blow dried her hair and then tried to soothe her mind with camomile tea.

So by the time she tried to sleep, the why's had won.

So why was she just lying here?

Twisting this way and that.

Defeated.

Feeling hot and uncomfortable and wrong in her own skin.

Every time she closed her eyes the warm red of the inside of her eyelids flickered with the sunlight glowing from behind her blinds.

There was no blackness to swallow her and take away the questions.

No relief, just more to ponder; so conflicted that she couldn't even manage to lie still.

Tossing and turning in tangled bed covers.

Around noon she threw them to the floor, and lay staring at the ceiling fan in only her underwear and a tank top.

Nothing seemed to clear her mind.

Not counting.

Not reading.

Not dull television, filled with mindless chatter.

If she had felt the energy to run she might have tried, but this listless nothing that ebbed through her muscles suggested lethargy not motion.

She rolled.

Pressing her nose into the pillow.

It had been a long time since it had smelt of Gil.

In disgust she threw it to the floor.

Pressing her forehead to the sheet instead.

Passing a few moments contemplating the last time she had shared a bed. The last time she had enjoyed a full night's sleep. The last night they had made love.

She turned again.

To her other side twisting away from the memory.

She wanted to be stronger.

But it was getting too hard.

The warmth of one tear trail slid across her nose and down onto the bed sheet.

Landing with a splash, spreading out as it soaked into the cotton.

From the night stand the small orange bottle called to her. The one beside the photo frame she had turned facedown so she didn't have to look at it.

They were old.

Prescribed in the time of Natalie and the desert and the pain.

But one never seemed to hurt on sleepless days like this.

She snatched the lid off quickly before she could change her mind.

Crunched it dry.

Just to be sure she could still taste.

Then sucked down nearly half a bottle of water, making the plastic carton crinkle and crunch.

Pulling her mouth away gasping.

Wiping it with the back of her hand.

Then she watched the fan again.

Her eyes tracing the hypnotic cyclical motions.

Not even bothering to count them anymore.

Until her eyes lolled.

Then nothing, as the blackness finally came.

**000000**

The phone.

It was the phone, ringing.

The sound drawing her out of unnaturally still sleep.

Her hand lifted for it.

Slow and sluggish and heavy with sedation.

Missed the black rectangle and slapped hard against the polished wood instead.

She didn't feel it.

She would in a few minutes.

The phone continued to ring.

Somewhere out there in the darkness behind her closed eyelids.

She didn't want to leave the stillness.

But that damn noise was making it tumultuous again.

The ringing like a klaxon awakening her brain.

She managed to get enough response from her fingertips to push the phone onto the bed, and as it bounced against the mattress to open her eyes long enough to press to connect.

"Lo?"

"Sara?"

Not Gil.

Good.

A male voice.

"Sara?" The voice was concerned, confused.

That made two of them.

"Sara?"

She managed to hum, but her voice was several octaves lower than her already naturally low tones.

"It's Russell, is everything alright?"

She tried to sit, up, eyes open now at a squint, managing somehow to swing her feet to the floor, but the room swayed as she did.

"Yeah," she heard herself murmur, somewhere from lower than she felt. Her hands lifted to her face, before sliding into her hair to try and steady her head.

Her head hurt, why did it hurt?

"What's up?"

"Nothing, it's just a..." there was a pause, "It's just a, 10.30 and I wondered if you might be joining us tonight?"

Shit!

She heard Russell's far off chuckle.

Great, she had said that out loud. Brilliant.

On her feet before she was ready to be she stumbled across the space to her dresser, on unsteady obstinate legs. Nearly unbalancing herself completely as she yanked open a draw with one hand, dragging clothes out, with uncooperative fingers.

"I'll be there in twenty," she told him.

"Tell you what," Russell suggested, sounding far more patient and understanding than she had any reason for him to be right now, "why don't you meet me at the KVKC Television News Studios. I'll text you the address."

''Kay," her mouth was so dry, her lips cracked.

Then he was gone. She tossed the phone onto the bed.

Shower.

She avoided looking at herself in the mirror, glad it had fogged with steam when she stumbled out moments later.

Dragged on a pair of jeans, and a shirt, getting tangled in one of the arms and knocking things off the bedside table in a deafening clatter.

The alarm clock she usually had with the illuminated time turned away had landed on the pillow by the bed.

Letters nice and bright.

It really was 10.30pm, she was nearly three hours late for work.

Turning back to the dresser for socks she stood on something making her way over. Hearing the crunch and wincing at the sensation of something broken beneath her bare foot.

Looking down she saw the cracked orange prescription bottle rolling away under the bed.

And things came back to her.

The sleeping pill.

No wonder she felt like she was moving through treacle.

She called a cab.

No way she could drive.

She opened the front door, when a horn blared and found a storm outside.

Great, she snatched up her raincoat from by the door, the wind nearly knocking her off her feet as she fought her way to the cab.

Wearing her sunglasses, at night, in a rainstorm.

Like a crazy person.

It was no wonder that the driver didn't look at her for the entire journey.

In the dark interior of the car her eyes acclimatised and she put the glasses in her pocket, and managed to speak just long enough to read out the address from Russell's text, and then she said nothing.

They arrived quickly, people seemed to be staying off the roads in the weather, she paid and rushed away towards the building, keeping her head low against the driving rain, an excellent excuse to avoid the faces of the uniforms gathered outside.

It was only as she reached the front door of the building that she thought of her kit, which was sat in her locker, back at the Lab.

But it was too late now.

"Here," the familiar voice shouted from behind her, "you'll need this."

Russell, was approaching her under a giant golfing umbrella which was barely withstanding the downpour, holding out her kit to her.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he just moved the kit closer to her hand again, and she took it instinctively. Allowing him to use his free hand to open the building door.

"Shall we?" He held the main doors open for her. Moving them inside and away from the noise of the storm and the news crews arriving from other areas of the city.

They found themselves in the lobby, freezing and soaked.

And she waited for him to close the umbrella, straighten himself out.

Waited on tenterhooks.

He wasn't saying anything.

She stood there shivering.

Eventually he looked up and just looked at her.

Carefully examining her face.

Was he searching for answers, waiting for an apology, for her explanation?

She opened her mouth to speak again, wondering where all the words had gone, wondering if he would ever believe that she had just over slept.

But he simply, touched her shoulder to guide her off towards a doorway on their right.

He watched her all the way down the corridor; damn the man must have good peripheral vision as he avoided obstacles and still kept on throwing concerned glances her way.

Her brain was too tired and fogged to try and think to hard about what he might be surmising.

That she had been drinking, that she was ill?

The next thought had her almost wishing to fall to her knees and confess all to him right now; all about the tablets she shouldn't be taking.

God, what if he thought she had been with Doug?

The idea that this man she respected might be considering the possibility that she had been cheating on her husband, and be checking her for signs of a heavy night of sexual adultery.

Her stomach clenched, and she slowed, feeling the corridor start to spin and a dry heave rising despite not having eaten.

"Why don't you wait here a moment," he stopped her, touching her arm lightly and then gesturing to a small row of seats. "I'll just go and find Detective Vartan."

She tried to object, but the understanding in his eyes caught her by surprise and she found herself sitting.

Taking a small amount of relief in the given time to pull herself together.

She kept the handle of her kit cradled between her palms, rocking the case. Willing the weight of the familiar work object to force her into work mode.

When he returned, she felt better.

Calmer, warmer, and a little stronger and she was able to follow him to start work on the scene of the crime.

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** All people, events and thoughts are borrowed or invented. Serious Spoilers for season 13, especially '_Risky Business Class_' and '_Dead Air'_. All familiar words were painstakingly transcribed the old fashioned way, play, pause, scribble, play, pause, scribble, play, pause, scribble, play, pause, scribble! Includes one single **big bad word** in the fifth section.

**Author Notes:** I've seen the promo for next week's 'forget me not'... it's certainly making people want to watch!

I have to admit that I haven't watched all the episodes of this season, or many at all from 12, but I only realised today when I checked on imdb for how to spell Finlay that it was her surname! My Bad!

Home Is Where The Coded Notebook Is...

By Rianne.

_Chapter Five._

As they reached the door to the news studio Russell's phone rang, he looked embarrassed as he read the display and then answered, 'Hi," followed by a short pause, before he continued with a strained, "I'm at work," turning his face away.

She moved back down the corridor and waited. Giving him privacy. Like he gave her.

Her own phone, still in her pocket where she had stashed it before rushing from her house, had three text messages on it when she looked.

One from Finn asking if she had heard of some Life Coach called Garrett Howard? One from Greg asking where she had put the paperwork on a previous case. One from Nick, which was a complaint about how dull his B&E case was.

Checking up on her, they were checking up on her. She wasn't paranoid. She wasn't.

She had to wonder if Russell had called them all asking if they had seen her when she was AWOL.

Behind her she heard Russell approach and straightened her spine.

"Sorry, you a..." He said when she turned to him; he shrugged at the air without offering any more. Expecting her to know what it was like when your personal life broached into work.

In two different ways it was happening less and less and also more and more.

Less actual contact at work, meaning much more distraction at work.

She replaced her own phone without sending any responses.

The studio was smaller than she had expected, smaller even than it looked on TV.

It reverberated with the echoes of their footfalls.

The light was dimmed, and it was cold too, her still damp jeans felt heavier around her ankles.

She put down her kit and removed her flashlight, feeling slightly woozy as she straightened.

Keeping her breathing slow to dispel the dizziness she tried to focus on only one thing at a time, and luckily Russell was doing most of the talking.

Hung over, would have been a good way to describe the sluggish, queasy sensations that warred for her attention.

She felt better than she had upon waking, but the after effects were building in intensity.

She felt tired, more so than if she hadn't slept a wink.

And the sight of Theresa Shea's blood seeping slowly onto the shiny table in a crimson, glassy lake was something she found herself watching in a dazed sort of distraction.

Detective Vartann joined them in the studio and Russell started making journalism puns which she hadn't the energy to even contend with, so instead she focused on Vartann. Spending most of her time noticing how low his no nonsense voice was as he told them about the way the newsroom was remotely powered, lit, and the broadcasts were recorded digitally without the need for people.

No camera person, no sound recordist, and yet a possible million people in Vegas could have witnessed the deceased's final breathing moments.

"A locked room mystery," she heard Russell murmur, but he sounded like he was far away, and he wasn't, she was still standing right beside him.

Vartann introduced a guy, the studio lighting tech, Denny something, strange looking guy, but she knew better than to judge by first blush, Gil had taught her that.

Russell was still taking; she could hear him but in a weird, underwater muffled sound kind of way.

They were talking about lights, and then Vartann and the other man left.

Russell asked her about the others, which meant he must think the case was beyond the limitations of the two of them alone. She was quite proud to be able to reel off that Finn was investigating a fire which had something to do with a Life Coach, and she bared her teeth in an awkward smile at the walking over hot coals gone wrong comment he shot back. She finished by saying that Greg and Morgan were pushing paper and Nick had the B&E.

It looked like she had passed his test and she could have almost genuinely smiled in relief. Almost.

And then the house lights in the newsroom were raised to full brightness and she longed for her sunglasses again.

Turning up the sun indeed.

They moved closer to the body, which thankfully hadn't started to smell like a corpse yet, beams of light flickering over her.

"Okay, call them and tell them to lock in the chain of custody." He told her, sounding serious now. "I want all hands on deck. Crime lab has the same rule as the local news. If it bleeds; it leads."

It was going to be a long night.

Just what she needed.

**000000**

It was nice to see David Philips. A familiar face, a kind face.

He waited patiently for her to finish up with her close range photographs of the scene before he started his examination.

A man who always treated the victims that he processed with the highest respect for the person they were and could have become.

It was there in the way he gently lifted the dark hair from Theresa Shea's neck to show the extent of her wound.

"Looks like there is only one injury," she said, aiming her flashlight so both could see more clearly.

"A single puncture wound to the back of the neck," he confirmed. "The shape suggests a knife."

"The killer was either lucky or good. He hit the perfect spot to kill her." She remarked, her suspicions about the killer having premeditated this murder becoming more defined.

"When we dissected frogs in High School Biology you'd pith it by sticking a pin right here." She looked down at the spot he was pointing too.

"The frog would get all..." he made a face like he was having frog convulsions.

Her stomach twisted at the memory of her own High School dissection days and the distaste adult Sara felt at animals being killed for something as commonplace as school Biology.

"None of the girls in the class wanted to do it, so they asked me." He continued as she took photographs to try and distract from her revulsion.

"I became known as the designated 'Pither'," he said, an element of pride in his voice. He was a strange guy, sweet, but very strange.

"I would have gone with 'Relief Pither'," She told him softly, appreciating the gentleness of the man before her.

She could tell that her tribute to his teenage self touched him.

He blushed as he said, "That's better."

Both married, and he didn't even try and flirt with her anymore and still he blushed when she gave him a compliment.

It was nice that some things did not change.

"David," she asked, "can you, a, sit her up for me one more time, I just want to get some context."

She heard how tired she sounded in her voice, she hadn't even the energy to speak any way but listlessly.

"Yeah," he told her, moving to bring about her request.

He lifted Theresa into place, with some effort.

It revealed new things.

"Spatter suggests the killer came from the left," she surmised letting her tired brain take over as she imagined the events.

"Plunged the knife in the back of her neck. Directional blood drops tell me he took off to the right in a hurry." Her head swivelled in the direction of the imagined killer.

She turned back to David, "If this was a pithing, it was a drive-by pithing."

God, even her jokes were tired.

**000000**

Finn arrived at the studio, disappearing to speak with the daftly pseudonymed weather reporter Rainy Days. Russell was speaking with Vartann and Fred Paulson the Executive Producer. Greg was dealing with the Theresa's PR Chad, Morgan was with the Lighting Tech she and Russell had briefly spoken to earlier and Nick was in wait for roving reporter Ella .

She caught a lift back to the Lab with David and the body.

Then she donned her lab coat and latex gloves as she entered the Morgue to visit Doc Robbins' for his analysis.

The moment she stepped through the door the constant weight of her phone began to vibrate in her lab coat pocket. She felt it before the irritating ring rose to grate on her very last nerves.

Lifting it out of her pocket her stomach sank as she saw the words _'Gil Grissom Incoming'_ flashing across the screen.

Now he was calling her?

Now?

She couldn't answer it.

The thought of speaking to him, in this state of mind, when her nerves were shredded and her heart was raw and pounding.

She was too angry.

She couldn't trust herself to speak and speak clearly.

She would get frustrated and they would both get hurt.

You know what, enough.

It was unfair. Things had to change and now it would be on her terms. When she wanted to speak to him.

With a decisive glare she silenced the call.

Then gave herself a calming moment.

10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3

Well maybe a few moments.

2,1.

Okay.

Doc Robbins was removing a silicone implant from Theresa Shea's face as she reached his side.

"Cheek implants?" she asked.

"This poor woman was fighting the war against aging one cosmetic procedure at a time." He confirmed. "Scarring and thread from multiple facelifts, forehead presents immobile musculature suggesting Botox, lip and wrinkle fillers, you name it."

He sounded sad.

"When your looks are married to your career its job security, I suppose," she replied.

He hummed in response.

"COD?"

"Severed brainstem. Knife wound hit right between the occipital bone of the scull and the atlas c1. Spinal cord was transected at the level of the medulla oblongata. Effectively disconnecting the transmission of signals between the brain and the body."

"So not just lucky, good." She surmised with thoughts of her earlier speculation on her mind.

"Yep."

"Any idea of a murder weapon?" she asked.

He lifted the flap of skin over the wound to show her, "I did find bruising at the entrance to the wound."

"You know, it kind of looks like one of those guards that you see on folding utility knives."

"It's a single edged blade and a sharp one at that," he confirmed.

"Some sort of viscous green paste in the wound track?" she asked. "Any idea what that is?"

He leaned over to his tools, "Well, it is not biological, looks like a job for David Hodges." He finished, scraping some from the wound with a q-tip.

Her phone suddenly rang. She froze as the sound grew louder. Disrupting the still of the morgue and getting a look from the good doctor.

No phones in the morgue was one of his rules, an oft broken one, but one all the same.

Oh God.

There went her stomach again. Dancing away as if it were independent.

Sheepishly she felt around in her pocket for it, hoping to God that Gil hadn't changed his personality overnight and was trying to call her again.

She withdrew it, squinting at the screen.

It wasn't.

The screen read _DB Russell Incoming_.

Much to her relief.

"Hello Russell," She sounded almost cheerful. Her heart was still pounding.

"Hey, I have been following the dedicated power line that goes between the Nevada Flats Power and KVKC trying to figure out why the power went out."

"Oh, you a, finding anything interesting?" she queried, a little curious about why he was calling. Was he checking up on her again?

"It's more about what I didn't find. A transformer, about a quarter mile from the station got blown to bits."

"Well those transformers can be volatile, particularly in wet weather, maybe some sort of malfunction?" she suggested.

"Well that's what I thought at first too, but then I found the remains of explosive material in the debris. Hold on a second will you..."

Okay, so she knew they were working together on this case, but was he just talking aloud here? She wasn't sure that she even needed to be actually listening on the end of this phone! She could probably just hum at appropriate pauses.

He wasn't back yet; she could hear what sounded like the shutter on his camera. Sirens in the distance.

"Well," he was finally back, "I just found parts of a cell phone, this is definitely not an accident."

"So this murder wasn't a crime of opportunity," she looked down at the body of Theresa Shea as she spoke.

"No, no no. This was patient, this was planned."

He didn't even say goodbye, he just hung up after that. Leaving her hovering over the silent phone for a few seconds before she realised connection had been severed.

Well.

**000000**

She caught up with him eventually. Tracking Russell down to a Lab.

He was deep in thought over debris when she entered and didn't turn.

"What kind of devise are we looking at?" She asked. Determined that he see her as the professional she truly was and not the mess who had come stumbling into the News studio earlier. Even though her head was still pounding.

"Well, I got some nitro-glycerine, some wax paper, I'm figuring the former was wrapped in the later."

"You've got to know an awful lot about explosives to mess with dynamite," she commented a little impressed.

"We're looking for someone in construction," he agreed nodding, "demolition, ex-military?"

"Cell phone, cheap looking components, could be a burner. Remote detonator?" She asked.

"Welcome to the Hurt Locker." He replied.

"As long as the phone has enough juice," he explained, "the device can sit in wait."

"Until it gets a call to action," she agreed.

They both imagined the phone starting to ring and detonating the bomb.

"Well," she murmured, picking up the phone with tweezers and moving it in front of her, "why don't I take the phone? Maybe I'll get lucky and be able to pull a print or two."

"I'll see if I can salvage some date shift code from the remnants of the dynamite paper."

For a while they worked in calm silence.

And not being alone allowed her to focus on the task at hand.

It took a while, but Russell eventually found a partial print on the dynamite paper letting her know with a delighted chuckle.

**000000 **

After Nick and Finn interrogated Ella and Robbie her camera man at PD, Finn called her and Russell and suggested that they took a drive to the home of Theresa Shea.

Ella had suggested that any truly important story that Theresa was working on, she would keep it safe at home.

Damn the house was impressive.

Beautiful outdoor space, exquisitely manicured despite the arid landscape.

She couldn't help but feel a slight twinge of envy as she slid her sunglasses down her nose and off, stepping inside with Russell.

"Nice digs," she said aloud, expressing the face she saw Russell pull.

"I'll say," he agreed.

There was an element of nosiness in their job.

They both put their kits down at the end of the elegant line of her entrance way. Looking up at the lofty inside space and the pristine tidy and almost OCD organisation.

It looked like a show house.

"I guess it pays a lot more to report crime than to solve it." Russell said, powering up his camera and taking an overall shot.

"Well you could say that about any job," she contended, amused. "Except crime. I hear that doesn't pay."

See she was feeling better and her jokes were improving.

Slowly.

He had the politeness to chuckle, as he laid the warrant on the breakfast bar, "Warrant Served."

"Theresa's working on some big secret story, right?" he posed to her. "Where does she keep it?"

Looking around she threw out, "Not in the living room. Seems untouched. Theresa Shea lived alone, right?"

He nodded. "Divorced. Three times."

"Well," she continued, "I know that when I take work home, sometimes it'll make its way into the bedroom."

In more ways than one, her conscious taunted her as she thought of days when her bed had been filled with papers from a case, crinkling as she had turned in restless slumber. And then to other days, when hard cases had been forgotten with a heady almost painful fuck. Reaffirming, hungry, angry, aggressive relief and then making up. Gil soothing her skin and soul with gentle kisses. Stroking away her tears and her heartbreak.

Her heart quivered and she had to think of something else.

Yet she couldn't.

Not when Russell said things like, "Well, you're not single, you're married."

Was she?

Yes technically she was married, but she didn't have the marriage most people thought of when you said the word. She had been so positive in the beginning that their different approach might have a few issues, but they could make it work. And it had. But now it wasn't and it wasn't what she wanted anymore.

She wanted to come home from a shift and find him waiting for her. Spread out in their bed, waking for the day, still asleep, ready for her to kiss, to curl up with, to arouse, to talk, or even to bicker.

"Yeah," she heard herself admitting. "But my place often looks a lot like this."

Pretty, well decorated, tidy, clean.

Empty.

Echoing.

Sad.

Mess wasn't really something that happened, when you were tidy and lived alone.

And lets face it, at the moment, she lived alone.

Just like she had for years.

Pining away for someone who wasn't with her.

He used to be physically present and emotionally absent.

Then just when she had pinned down the emotional, he was thousands of miles away.

Timing sucks.

At that she walked away, making a passage through the house, looking for any trace of anything out of place, but nothing struck as odd.

Kitchen was pristine, so pristine it shone.

The next sight drew her up short. An entire room off the kitchen, filled with a vast array of items all lost in some kind of intensely organised chaos. An office of sorts. Completely different to the rest of the house in every way.

Her eyes darted everywhere, taking in the pictures, words, all painstakingly ordered.

Dead flowers, newspaper clippings and post it notes pinned to the French windows blocking out a lot of light. Boxes overspilling papers all over the floor.

"Okay, maybe not exactly like this," she shouted out to Russell to get his attention.

"Russell!" she tried again when he didn't respond. "I think I just found what we were looking for."

"Oh, my!" He said as he came up behind her taking in the sight. "Theresa was certainly onto something. Like she was obsessed."

"Good chance this obsession is what got her killed."

**000000**

She was doing some closer examination, removing some of the clippings with careful gloved hands.

"Theresa Shea earned her stripes as an investigative reporter. Looks like she's still got it. Or had it." She corrected as she turned to him, he was pacing the floor behind her, meandering around the boxes. "News clippings, Internet articles."

"Copies of Police reports, marked up and lots of arson reports." He told her what he had found.

She scanned the walls, "All these clippings are about a serious of unsolved warehouse and store fires on the East side seventeen years ago."

"Why is a superficial nip-tuck diva digging into cold cases about a fire bug?" he posed the million dollar question.

"She wasn't digging, she was excavating."

"But why was she so invested? She didn't need the story to advance her career. Yet she spent all her time on it."

She lifted an old, slightly crusty, beginning to be unpleasantly fragrant takeout dish.

"She ate all her meals in here, too. Living alone can drive you a little crazy."

Truer words she never had spoken.

God, who was in control of her mouth right now, as she clearly wasn't.

Crazy was just the tip of the iceberg for her these days.

He didn't flinch, which she appreciated.

He was awkward as he stuttered, "Well, there's crazy and then there's Colonel Kurtz crazy."

She moved away, and that was good, because she saw the glasses on the counter.

"Maybe she wasn't always alone." She mused aloud, drawing his attention. "One of these wine glasses is wearing lipstick and the other isn't."

"I wonder who our mystery date is."

"I'll get them to Henry," she told him, looking forlornly at the dead roses in the vase. Just like Theresa, wilted and gone.

She was putting the glasses into evidence bags when Russell held up a slim line black notebook.

"Reporter's Notebook," he told her. "Maybe this can help us make sense out of all of this organised chaos."

She came over to look at his find.

"What is that writing? Some kind of shorthand maybe?" she queried.

"Gregg style to be specific," he told her. "I haven't seen that for years."

He closed the notebook, "Our victim is very old school. I supposed some of our answers might be here."

**000000**

She took the notebook, glasses and several other items which looked like key pieces.

Scanning in the notebook she was able to enlarge some of the pages to poster size so they could be pinned up and looked at from afar as a whole.

She was prepared and just about ready to start when Finn appeared at the door, jacket on and purse on her shoulder.

"You must be running on fumes," Finn's words were far too close to true. "You should go home."

They were checking up on her again.

She wouldn't admit it aloud, but her behaviour was giving her pause as well.

"Home is where the coded notebook is," she tossed back with a half smile. Glib as you like, but home was not a place she wanted to go right now.

Then it happened.

Her phone on the desk rang.

Again.

The second time today.

Vibrating away.

_Gil Grissom Incoming_.

Without thinking twice she reached out and silenced it.

Twice in one day.

She had to wonder if someone, most likely David Hodges hadn't contacted Gil and provoked this sudden surge of interest.

She'd kill him.

Or thank him.

She wasn't sure yet.

The air in the room was tense.

Finn was still there watching her.

Examining her reaction.

She could feel the other woman working up to asking her about it.

"Have you talked to him since the NTSB guy?"

There it was.

"Nothing happened with NTSB." Her voice was tight and defensive, but she couldn't help it.

Why couldn't anyone talk normally? Straight clean conversations. Why were they talking in acronyms and code like teenagers?

Like secretive Theresa Shea?

Was it her own fault for always keeping people at a little bit of a distance?

She knew she was hard to read, and that it was on purpose. A first line of defence born from the childhood that had been filled with things she wasn't supposed to talk about.

And yet Gil, the person she was closest to in the world was only just getting it that she might be unhappy.

She spoke in too many coded riddles, too many responses kept beneath the surface to keep them private.

Even when she wanted to cry from the rooftops in delight or heartbreak.

Maybe she did need to shout things out loud sometimes.

"How come you can't pick up the phone?"

Don't ask that question her mind begged.

She wasn't completely sure of her answer. There were a lot of excuses. Fear, hurt, uncertainty.

So she gave the only answer she could right now.

"Because if I do I feel like I'm going to be really sad when I hang up."

She had to look away. She could hear the tears in her voice. Feel the heat of them rising.

She didn't want to face the pitying, trying to be understanding, look that filled the other woman's expression.

"How do you know?" Finn tried to coax.

"Cause he wants to talk."

Finn didn't know Gil, had no idea of the implications of that single string of five words.

For a moment she missed Catherine. Catherine would have understood that her brevity hid vast unchartered depths of pain.

She ached. The exhaustion in her was emotional and mental and physical all at once. A nearly incapacitating combination.

Finn was watching her again, but looked away uncomfortably when she lifted her face towards her.

God, was everything really written that clearly in her face?

She breathed out slowly. Calming and recognising that a tiny bit of the weight had lifted at the thought that someone other than she knew.

That someone cared that she was in pain.

"Want some help?" Finn's offer was a surprise.

Her response genuine.

"Aww, that's a, that's really nice." She couldn't accept that though. "You, should go home. Have some fun."

"This is fun! I'm really good at crosswords."

Was not the response she was expecting, but she "Yeah, Okay'd" it gratefully. Glad to clear the air.

"So, Gregg style shorthand is written phonetically." She began segueing into CSI mode. "Cat is KAT, knee is NE. Soft _consonants_ like CH and SH are written horizontally. And hard _consonants_ like T and D are written downwards, like this."

"And vowel sounds are curves and circles," Finn read aloud, holding the Gregg Lexicon aloft.

"Okay," Finn announced, "Lets crack the code!"

They worked quietly after that and the mood gradually eased, lost some of the forced intensity it had held when Finn first offered to stay.

It became obvious that Finn was actually enjoying the work, especially when she made her first big break through and linked one squiggle with the word 'unsolved' with a little cry of triumph.

Eventually they were done, the code was translated and they reassembled at the table to talk it out.

She began, "Seventeen years ago a series of warehouse arsons in the furniture district baffled investigators."

"Cases were unsolved," Finn added, "and put on ice."

"But Theresa pulled up lab reports that pointed to dynamite and waxed paper and that looks an awful lot like a seventeen year old version of what blew that power transformer."

"Do we have a clue as to who would have made either device?" Finn asked.

"No, but Theresa did, she referenced in her journal someone named GH. Who is a demolitions expert, who had a storied career in the military, he's now working as a..."

Finn cut her off, "Motivational Speaker!"

They paused to take this in.

"Didn't you just investigate a fire?" She asked Finn.

"Yes I did. Garrett Howard, he was a retired military munitions expert."

"Well, where is he now?" She asked.

"He's downstairs."

In the morgue really needed to be added.

**000000**

So back she went down to the morgue. Once again donning her Lab Coat and latex gloves. But this time her phone did not ring.

Doc Robbins was still on duty and happy to show her the victim.

"Anything of note with Mr Howard?" she asked him.

"Well, most people die in fires from smoke inhalation, not burns. But take a look at this lung."

He lifted the organ up for her to see.

"Very clean." She confirmed. "He didn't die from the fire."

"Nope."

"Did you by any chance find anything on the back of his neck?" She was working on a hunch.

"Your instincts are good as always," he complimented and after today it was both nice and embarrassing to hear.

Good hunch though.

"Come round here and have a look."

She moved around the table and helped roll Mr Howard over onto his side.

"Knife wound," Doc Robbins confirmed. "Right between the occipital bone and the scull in atlas c1."

"Consistent with the murder of Theresa Shea."She announced.

"Right down to the green paste," he agreed.

Their shared look said it all.

**000000**

Russell was watching the TV when she arrived at the office. Whatever the changes over the last few years she still had to stop herself from thinking of it as Grissom's office.

"Yesterday's news?"

She was joking, or trying to.

"And the day before, and the day before that," he admitted. Looking back at her over his shoulder as she took a seat on his sofa.

It was comfortable and cool and her tired body enjoyed the respite it offered.

"I'm trying to make sense of this whole dysfunctional family of the News Team." He pressed mute on the remote, turning his body to face her as he continued to speak. "Theresa sucked up a lot of oxygen; I just want to see if any of her siblings look a little short of breath."

She liked how he compared the newsroom staff to a family. Just like their own oddball little Lab Night Shift family.

"Any luck?" she queried, opening the file on her lap to gather together what she wanted to show him.

"No," he admitted. "You?" He asked taking a sip from his mug

"A little bit," she announced, flicking through her papers, satisfied that it seemed like the evidence was beginning to fall into place. "Theresa was investigating a cold case, it was serial arson, those famous fires in the furniture district were started by an explosive device. Which lead us to current case."

"Which ones that?" he asked.

"Finlay's dead motivational speaker." She watched his expression morph into one of surprise but kept speaking. "Turns out he was a demolition expert, and he specialised in the type of devices that were all found at those old arson sites, dynamite with a remote trigger."

"Rings a bell," he chimed in.

"And best that I can tell the device was a precursor to the explosive device you found in the transformer."

"Okay, so the guy seventeen years ago builds incendiary devices to start fires, then nothing, then he blows up a transformer. Why'd he start up again now?" he asked.

"Similarities don't end there," she told him, handing over one of her papers for him to see.

He barely glanced at it, speed reading prowess, "Guy's wound track has the same green paste as we found in Theresa's pithing."

"So, we're looking at a locked room mystery, tucked into an enigma, wrapped in dynamite paper." God Gil would have loved this case.

"You can say that again."He chuckled.

She liked this guy. Boss or not, he got her humour and that made him alright.

"Hey, Sara let me ask you something."

His tone had changed, he was looking at her in that very same way that Finn had earlier and Doug before that. He was going to ask her something personal. Not even ask. Tell her.

You could go off someone, quickly.

He was uncomfortable, but concerned. Fidgeting, rubbing his forehead as he asked, "How are you doing? You alright?"

She panicked. The room seemed a lot smaller.

Her words came sharply.

"I'm fine."

She wasn't. She sounded annoyed and cold.

The fact that he wasn't stupid was right there across his face.

Her spine had straightened. Her chin lifted. Too tired to fight the defensive posture her body had taken.

He paused, was undeterred, but careful. "Well, you just seemed a little bit down when we were at Theresa's place."

She studied the file across her knees.

Completely on edge.

She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear for something to do with her fingers as she thought of an excuse.

"Uhm, Oh, I don't know."

Great, that was concise, he was going to leave this alone now.

She found the TV behind his head really interesting, even thought it was really just a rapid blur of colours.

"Woman married to her career," she almost cringed at how her voice caught on the word marriage, "with not much to show for it."

Kind of like her marriage.

She had worked with the man before her for what, eighteen months now and he had never even met her husband.

"It's a little depressing."

Quite possibly the understatement of the year.

He nodded, his eyes reflecting her own and she saw a wealth of sadness there.

He stuttered and she knew what he had seen in her then had caused that discomfort. She looked away to shelter him from the emptiness inside her.

"Yeah," he waved his palm as he chose his words. "I don't mean to pry, but..."

"Pause right there."

He didn't, he kept talking, misunderstanding what she meant.

"I know, I know, I'm supposed to be your boss, separation between Church and State and all that..."

"No, no, no, hit pause, with the remote," she said animatedly, glad for the distraction don't get things wrong, but there was something there. "And back it up a little bit."

He followed her instructions, fumbling with the buttons and the complete 180 in conversation.

On the screen Rainy Days was silently mouthing her way through the weather report in reverse, wearing a skin-tight red dress that left little the imagination.

"There you see it?" she asked, pleased to have caught something that was one in a million in the middle of a conversation like that. If he hadn't backed her into a corner she would have never sought to hide her feelings by staring at the TV.

"Maps not only behind her it's on her dress!" he replied, nodding his head, focused on the spot on the back of the woman's outfit.

"I see London, I see France," he murmured like a school boy taunting the girls.

I see Rainy in her underpants. Her brain completed the verse.

"There is only one reason that we would be able to see that on her dress." She reminded him.

"She's got a green stain on it," he agreed.

Then his mood changed again.

That look was back. The concerned one. It creased his brow, before he spoke.

"I'm going to head to the studio, why, a... why don't you take a break."

Her own brow creased into a frown, but he cut her off before she could protest.

"Go home for a bit; get something to eat, have a cup of coffee or something."

And at that he left her there open mouthed, but too damn tired to protest. Just watching as he shrugged, and walked away, closing his office door behind him.

She sank back into the cushions of the sofa.

Trying not to be offended. Or feel like she was being given special treatment.

Coffee did sound good.

So did the quiet.

She'd move in a minute.

The motion sensing lights clicked off and the room fell dark and as motionless as she was.

She'd get coffee in a minute.

No, she really should go now.

She took a cab back to her home.

Fully intending to get into the shower, change her clothes, but as she stepped through the kitchen the thought of food was too good to pass up and she bundled the leftovers from her last meal into the microwave and set to full.

Watching the food spin.

Beside the sink there was a nice bottle of red. Dark voluptuous spicy merlot. Went perfectly with her meal. She wasn't expected back on duty for another few hours. One small glass wouldn't hurt. It might help her sleep.

It was warm from the first sip.

Sinking that warmth lower, sliding through her.

She sank back into her sofa cushions, food settling nicely in her empty stomach.

Thinking about how she'd move in just a minute.

**000000**

The motion was just right, making her arch and stretch towards.

Heavy, but eternally gentle palms, brushing back her hair to press wet kisses to her temple, beard teasing the sensitive skin, lips sliding slick down to her throat.

Making her groan and arc tighter, digging her nails into his scalp.

Heavy weight of him a delicious burden.

His heart was pounding against hers, her sensitive nipples catching against his chest.

Legs wrapped tightly around the centre of him.

His slow thrust, good and intense and moving deeper, angled just right.

Building the ache.

As the sweat beaded, salty on their skin, easing the glide.

And his breath trailed out with the tumble of words. Breathing them across her skin in his beautiful familiar voice.

Promises of love and devotion.

That he'd never leave her.

Blue eyes meeting hers, focused, deep.

His name on her lips, over and over in murmured euphoria.

It was always good, he knew her so well.

The squirm growing tighter with each forward shift.

Melting together in a tender stroke.

Her insides coiling sweeter with an intensifying beat.

Limbs starting to shiver, vision becoming blurred.

Then as he murmured "I love you," she burst.

Climax thumping sweet and hot.

Relief good and trembling.

She quivered, delighting in the moment. Body weightless. Boneless. Glad.

Then quiet.

"Gil," she whispered, lifting her face from his chest. Eyes brimming with tears at the thought of them being together again.

His face lifted and she tore herself away from the body with a gasp of horror.

Not Gil, Doug.

Looking at her with a sated, smug grin.

"That's okay baby," he told her, "whatever helps you sleep at night."

She awoke with a gasp.

Heart roaring.

Disoriented.

Totally confused and nauseous.

Night blind.

Where the hell was she?

She blinked rapidly trying to let her brain catch up.

She was at home.

Laid out on the sofa.

The room dark.

Her own fingers pressing between her legs through the fabric of her jeans, the orgasm still ebbing away.

She snatched her fingers back.

Her heart was pounding.

She'd fallen asleep.

It was a dream. It had been a dream.

There was no Gil, no Doug.

She sat up, sinking her head in her hands to stop the room spinning.

Something fell heavy against her lap.

Her phone, which had been dislodged from her chest as she moved.

The little notification light was flashing.

There was a missed call message when she illuminated the screen.

She fumbled with the touch screen to bring up the recent call list.

Gil.

Another missed call from Gil.

But above it there was another call.

A connected call.

One which listed the call duration as being ten minutes.

A connected call?

To Gil?

Had she called him?

Had she spoken to him?

Had she left him a voicemail?

Oh God, what had she said?

Why couldn't she remember it?

Had she been sleepwalking?

Her body felt chilled.

She felt like she was going to be sick.

As she remembered.

The wine.

The sleeping pills.

Mixing them together. Even a few hours apart had consequences.

The pills alone had their side effects.

Tiredness in the day, dizziness, unusual dreams, headaches.

Or it could be plain old insanity.

That was another option.

She could finally be losing her mind.

After all crazy did run in her family.

She had just had a sex dream and brought herself to orgasm and had a possible conversation with her husband or his answer phone and she couldn't remember very much or anything at all about it.

When she thought of the things she might have said to Gil. The secrets and truths which could have come pouring out in the depths of her weakness.

She put a hand to her chest as she swallowed down the urge to vomit.

Cold sweat on her skin, from the shock, from the climax.

She felt totally out of control. Like her life wasn't her own.

She had to get out of here, away from the scene of the crime.

Legs still wobbly she staggered to the bathroom.

Splashed her face with freezing cold water.

Finding relief in the shock to the senses.

Avoiding looking at herself in the mirror.

She didn't want to see the shame and utter bewilderment she knew would be reflected back at her.

What was wrong with her?

She was smarter than this.

Stronger than this.

Back in the main room she picked up her phone again, and still her call list was the same.

Gil Grissom. Connected Call. Duration 10 minutes 3 seconds.

She closed her eyes feeling the room sway.

And nearly hit the ceiling when the phone in her hand sprung to life.

Jesus!

_DB Russell Incoming_.

She took three clear breaths before answering.

"Sidle."

"Hey, I a, need you to come in to the News Studio." He told her. "I have an idea. Get ready for your close up Mrs Grissom."

Then he disconnected.

Right.

She looked down at her rumpled clothing realising she had no time to change.

She did take the time to brush her teeth, swallowing down her queasiness at the mint flavour toothpaste.

Then she headed out.

She eyed her car, still safe from all her distractions in her parking space.

Yeah, cab it was.

**000000**

There was no good news when she arrived.

There was the aftermath of chaos.

Denny Jones, the studio lighting tech she had met earlier had had some kind of mental breakdown and whilst Morgan and Russell had tried to talk him down he had used the suspected murder weapon to stab himself in the chest.

A perfect knife to the heart.

Morgan was shell shocked, Russell was playing hell with the press and suddenly her life and its problems weren't as important anymore. No one was noticing that she felt off and uneasy. There was something else to concentrate on.

When the onslaught lessened, Russell assembled them all in the news studio. They stood in a line, awaiting instructions.

Waiting for Russell to begin.

It felt a little surreal with the bright lighting and the quiet. She could hear Finn breathing beside her. See Morgan rocking on her heels to self soothe as they waited. Almost feel Greg's concern for their colleague wafting over to her.

"Okay, this is going to be fun," Russell finally began.

She doubted it, but it was her job to play along and she was wondering why he was pacing with a little yellow flag.

"Now, when we came into this we had three suspects and no evidence, right? Now we've got some evidence and I want to play a little game. Capture the flag."

Beside her the other three were as enthusiastic as she felt. No one moved. No one responded.

Morgan even had her arms folded.

"Bear with me," he promised, pacing away.

"Okay, this particular flag," he moved around the news desk, "is going to represent Theresa Shea's life. I'm going to stick it right here."

He slid the little yellow flag into the back of the swivel chair before spinning it around to face the desk.

"Sara," he pointed at her, "you're going to play Theresa."

Then he gesture to the others, "the three of you are each going to be playing one of our suspects. Now you will start from wherever our evidence placed them. We'll turn off the lights, whoever can get in, take Theresa's life and get out in twenty seconds is our killer."

And it was a go.

Russell took to the control room, wearing a head set.

She had taken her seat in the Anchor's Chair.

"Twenty seconds to air time." Russell announced to them.

Vartann was ready to kill the lights.

"I'm gonna be playing Mr Paulson," Russell reminded them. "Sara, you're my anchor, right?"

"Alive and well," she confirmed, sitting straight, her hands neatly folded right where Theresa's head had fallen.

She was in the chair of the fallen, and she was making jokes.

Appropriate.

"Okay, Greg, where are you at?"

She heard Greg's remote voice reply, "Alright, I am at the coffee machine about to go to the garage and make a deposit."

Finn's voice appeared next, "I'm at my Doppler station, I'm monitoring the storm as instructed. Computer puts Rainy here until the lights go out."

"Thank you, Rainy," Russell replied starting to not only imagine them as their characters, but call them after them as well.

"Denny?"

Morgan's voice responded, "I'm in my cage, Internet activity locks me here until we lose power."

"As soon as the lights go out I want everyone to try and kill Sara."

Whoa wait a minute?

They were Chad, Rainy and Denny and she was still Sara?

"Ready," Russell counted down. "Set. Go!"

And around her the lights went out and darkness swallowed.

She continued to breathe slowly.

Her whole body aware.

She could hear the others breathing through their headsets.

Hear her own breathing.

Eyes darting about in the dark, sure she saw movement through the blackest blackness.

Sure that the air stirred with another's motion.

19, 18, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

And the lights came up again.

Leaving them all blinking.

Finn and Greg and Morgan in a circle around the desk, just that little bit too far away.

All looking at one another in confusion.

This couldn't possibly have worked.

But she knew a secret.

She knew that flag was gone.

"Well Chad was too far away," Greg admitted.

Morgan followed, "And Denny was too.

"Rainy couldn't get to Theresa." Finn finished their trio with "none of us made it on time."

But it was her turn now.

"Yeah," she said as she stood, "but the flag is gone."

She swivelled her chair in a circle to show them.

It was almost amusing to watch them all share looks.

"Well who took it then?" Greg was the first to admit defeat and ask.

And Russell answered, by knocking on the window, a beat, and then a cute wave of the little yellow flag.

The winner.

The killer.

"You were all too far away," came Russell's voice through the headset. "Because you were sent too far away. By me."

He turned to Vartann, "Detective, did you see me leave this room?"

Vartann shook his head, "no I did not."

"And as far as everyone in here knew, Paulson never left either. Blew up the power. Stepped outside. Took care of Theresa. Got back in the room before the generator kicked on."

Game Over.

**000000**

Russell gave her a lift back to the Lab, but he didn't try and talk to her again.

He didn't even pass comment about the fact that she was still wearing the same clothes, but she had seen him notice.

He left her to look out of the window and think of nothing as the world rushed by.

Then they went into the interrogation room with Mr Fred Paulson.

She pushed the newspaper clippings across the table towards him. All neatly categorised in clear evidence bags.

She started as she meant to go on, strong, and after that things went very well.

She took the lead, feeling confident in herself within the realms of work and what she knew.

She talked Paulson through her theory. That he had been the one to start all those fires in order to be the first on scene to photograph them and make his name. How Garrett Howard had been an old army buddy who had saved his life. How giving Denny Jones a job had been a favour to Howard, in return for his munitions expertise. How when Denny had become involved with Theresa and he knew he had shared his secrets, how he had tried to frame Denny with his knife and how he had killed Theresa to stop her using his past to keep her news anchor job.

She was on a roll when she got going.

A serious unstoppable roll and the guy before her was just ploughed over.

The room was alive.

Even Russell admitted that he was 'loving this.'

Once again, fingerprint evidence put the final seal on the case and she left the interrogation room on a high.

They returned to Russell's office. Leant side by side against his desk to watch the latest KVKC news broadcast as it aired live.

A new anchor on the screen. Theresa Shea's seat already filled.

"Breaking News tonight, which sadly hits close to home," she began, "long time news producer Fred Paulson has been charged with first degree murder in the death of Theresa Shea."

At that very moment her phone vibrated to life in her pocket.

She scrambled for it, embarrassed.

_Gil Grissom. Incoming Call_.

Again.

She looked to Russell, and his face was calm. Silent understanding.

He nodded, lightly touching her upper back in a quick encouraging contact, before he muted the TV and left his own office. Giving her the privacy to talk.

It was time.

It may not be on her terms.

But it was way past time.

She steeled herself and pressed connect.

Her heart in her throat.

She lifted the phone to her ear.

Hand trembling.

"Hello," her voice was barely recognisable.

She swallowed.

His voice was a heaven to her ears, and a heartbreak.

She felt it wrap around her heart and clutch.

"You've been hard to get a hold of."

Just simple words, no accusation, just a passing comment as if this were all normal and her soul wasn't dying.

"Yeah, um, I'm so sorry."

Was she? She didn't feel sorry. She felt sad, tired, hurt. She looked to the side hoping that straining her eyes would be enough to stem the tears.

It was happening again. They hadn't talked in so long and yet here they were talking and saying absolutely nothing!

"How are you?" she asked. Her voice was so listless she was worried she might drown in the sorrow of it all.

"I'm okay," came his reply.

He didn't sound okay.

And she wasn't okay.

Wasn't okay at all.

"Is now a good time?"

She wanted to scream that no. No it wasn't a good time! It was time for him to come home. For them to be together.

But instead she said nothing.

Nothing at all.

At all.

Nothing...

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, not mine, not mine. I would fix them. Now contains ideas from _Risky Business Class_, _Dead Air_ and _Forget Me Not_.

**Author Notes: **I watched _Forget Me Not_ yesterday morning... and I certainly won't forget it. I have re-watched it and I still can't believe it's really over, "Truth is, he's not my husband anymore..." You can't help but be sad when you think of all the years before now.

I will admit that I really enjoyed watching it; Jorja Fox did an outstanding job. I did squeak a little to learn that TV Sara has been drinking wine and taking sleeping pills just like this fic Sara – and that there was the possibility that she was doing things she can't remember...

Apologies that this is only short - consider it a bridge between the old and the new...

_**Home Is Where The Coded Notebook Is...**_

By Rianne.

**Chapter Six.**

The silence stretched.

The phone connection, faint and crackling was the only sound.

Nothing ticking onwards to infinity.

Except there wasn't an infinity anymore.

There was a weight to the silence, a growing weight.

Of eerie finality.

She said nothing, merely waited, fingers curling into the support of the wooden desk behind her.

The ring on her finger felt unnaturally cold.

Until his voice came again, "Are you still there?"

The lump in her throat was the size of an egg.

"Yes," she croaked, barely above a whisper.

"I think we need to talk some more about what we decided last night," he continued.

She turned cold.

Last night?

She had thought their connected call was just a malfunction with her phone.

All the feeling had gone from her legs.

There were no memories at all in her head.

What had they spoken about?

Had she told him about Doug, had she told him about the heartache, the loneliness, about how much she missed him?

All that came into her head when she thought of last night were blurry images of them making love in her dream.

How did she let on that she had no idea what they had spoken about?

Her eyes welled up.

He didn't sound like he was calling to arrange a reunion for them.

"Sara, I know this isn't what we had in mind when we started this, but I think it's for the best."

She was beginning to panic now. The pulse in her throat beating tightly.

Started what? Their research? Their work in Costa Rica? Their move to Paris? Her move back to Vegas?

"Look I know it's hard to talk about." He continued, but there was something lacking in his tone.

She wished she could see him right now, read his expression, his eyes.

Maybe she would understand then what he was talking about.

He paused. "But I think this is the right thing."

"Gil," her voice was so unlike her, trembling into the phone. "I don't remember."

The tears came.

The shame of the confession ahead of her.

"I uhm, I..."

She just couldn't. The tears were too much. Leaving her gasping for breath.

"I a, took a sleeping pill. I don't remember speaking to you."

She heard his intake of breath. He sounded like she had stabbed him.

He was in pain and she hated that. Hated that she was in pain too.

Bad.

This was bad.

She knew he was used to her odd sleeping behaviours. Sleep walking, sleep talking, the occasional sexual advance when her hormones were full, and the screaming. No one could forget the screaming.

He knew about the pills too, that she needed to have seven hours of uninterrupted sleep to not have memory lapses.

His silence let her know he believed her.

And somehow that was worse.

Even with the wine omitted.

His call must have awoken her.

Had she taken a pill with the wine? She didn't think so. But this latest batch from the pharmacy seemed more potent than the last.

He was still there, still breathing and she realised she could hear him crying. Each intake drawn deep with a shudder.

"I miss you, I want you here with me," she sobbed out, pleading with him.

No longer caring that she wasn't hiding her tears, no one was that strong.

The hand that had been gripping the desk let go to wrap around herself in desolation.

"I can't do that." He told her. So final.

His voice had gone dead. The life just gone. The way it did when he just couldn't do things anymore.

"It's over isn't it?" She barely got the words out.

Sinking to the floor, curling her knees up to her chest.

She gasped, in near disbelief. "That's what we talked about."

Rhetorical. No need for a question.

Her head and her heart were screaming.

"No..." she sobbed out, "no... no..." she was instinctively rocking, her body shaking.

She heard him murmur her name, but she barely caught it.

He sounded like a stranger.

The Gil she knew, that she had vowed to love forever, wasn't the man on the other end of this phone.

Things got blurry.

The room, the sound, overwhelmed by the stuttering irregular pound of her broken heart.

She got angry then, but the hurt had beaten nearly all the fight from her.

"You couldn't even come here to tell me that?" She begged. "You're a coward."

Missing their anniversary was one thing, but ending eight years of relationship over the phone?

He didn't fight her. He didn't speak.

"You bastard."

She disconnected.

Letting the phone fall to the floor.

**000000**

She remained motionless.

Empty.

So long that the energy saving motion sensor office lights went off leaving her in darkness.

She must be in shock.

When she had told Finn she would leave the conversation sad she wasn't even remotely close.

She was dead inside.

A sickly blackness filling her stomach and chest.

Her forehead pressed to her knees.

The tears run dry.

He had tried to call twice.

It hadn't tempted her to answer.

She hadn't even looked up from the shelter of her thighs.

She thought she had been alone before with him thousands of miles away.

Well now...

She had never felt more alone in her entire life.

**000000**

She had barely any recollection of getting home.

She hadn't been able to drive. No car. So she had walked.

Sunglasses on, through the dark back alleys, distantly lit neon streets of Las Vegas far behind her.

On into the suburbs.

Walked for hours.

Round in circles.

She knew the city now, but that didn't matter.

It was about the motion. If she could keep moving the overwhelming wave wouldn't be able to catch up with her.

The sun was rising as she eventually took refuge. Needing to get away from the light.

But her place was too bright, she had rented it for that very same reason.

Beautiful indoor garden oasis at the entrance, high warehouse ceilings, skylights, cream walls, open space.

It had reminded her of Costa Rica.

The way the light had fallen in beams between the dappled leaves.

She had chosen it with him in mind.

She was too drained to cry, merely letting her gaze move from area to area.

She had thought he would like the garden, had filled it with cactus that looked fresh and smelt sweet.

Had imagined him lounging, reading in the living space, the clean light the perfect illumination.

Even the painted tones had been a combination of their favourite colours in an eclectic mix.

Yet he had never been here.

Not once in three years.

She had always gone to him, met in a hotel for a treat, or met somewhere in the middle, and once they had stayed with his mother when he had come for a quick stopover.

The closest he had come to getting a tour was when she had lifted her iPad and let him see the place via Skype.

Why had she not insisted?

Why had she not demanded?

Why had she not questioned why he hadn't shown as much interest in her life back in Vegas as she showed about his?

The thought that he might never come here wasn't something she wanted to consider.

Her limbs ached. The hours she had walked had left the soles of her feet burning in her boots.

Her bed called.

The comfort of the heavy, soft covers like the promise of an embrace.

She took her phone from her purse.

To shut it down.

She couldn't avoid the screen.

Five more missed calls.

Yet right now they meant nothing.

And one text message.

She considered deleting it.

She read it anyway.

'_We can't keep waiting to be together. You are too young and I'm too old and we are both too far apart. It needs to be this way.'_

Numb she killed its power.

Tossing it aside.

Stripping off only the necessary clothing she knelt as if to pray.

But her focus wasn't for help, forgiveness, or a sign.

It was to scramble under the bed for the little orange bottle which had rolled beneath so many hours ago. In a different life.

She shouldn't do this.

But what did it matter now.

The bitter tablet was gone in a flood of water from the same bottle as before.

She mounted the bed at a crawl.

Was barely aware of lifting the covers over herself, up over her head too.

And then blissful nothing.

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Enough said. Contains ideas from _Risky Business Class_, _Dead Air_ and _Forget Me Not_.

**Author Notes:** Thank you to those who are sticking with this despite all the sadness. Thank You also to delita0204 and my other unnamed guest who I can't reply to any other way – but You Rock! I've had some lovely conversations with readers recently! I love that CSI is encouraging discussion again!

A part of this chapter actually came from another story that I had begun and never finished working on. That one was to have been called _Beloved_. The rest of this chapter gave me stress!

Apologies for the delay in my newly regular posting schedule - I have been in bed since Friday with Flu.

**Home is Where The Coded Notebook Is**

By Rianne

_Chapter Seven._

Her bare toes curled into the warm sand.

Silky rough granules adjusting under every footfall.

One of her favourite feelings in the world.

Exposed skin bathed in late afternoon sunlight.

There were no restrictions here.

No rules.

An existence built on communing with nature.

It simplified the world, made her understand freedom, calm, and uncomplicated.

Slow waves caressed the land at the edge of the beach.

The soothing sound rhythmic and lulling.

The white silky fabric she wore, rippling and circling around her ankles.

Feminine, delicate, sleek.

She felt beautiful.

Her hair, loose and waving naturally free floated about her face.

Lifted by the warm breeze off the ocean.

Single white flower entwined above her left ear.

Silky, cleaned with real water, not rain water or sea water for the first time in weeks.

The salt and sunlight having lightened strands, giving her curls a halo of golden gleams in the deepening sunset illumination.

The after effects of touches of light which had been long missing from her life before.

And then she saw him.

Waiting for her.

Gil.

Unmoving against the glimmering canvas of aquamarine sea.

Dressed in pale linen.

Feet bare, beard tamed, eyes light.

Her heart surged.

The way he was looking at her.

The love and desire in his eyes.

The freedom, the happiness, the gratitude.

All things she felt.

Blushing in deference to his gaze, but unable to break their connection, as she closed the space between them.

He reached out to capture her trembling hand in his.

Not afraid, just a little overwhelmed.

The rest blurred.

Words from the officiator.

Promises of theirs.

To Love.

To Cherish.

His eyes glittered.

He did.

She did.

The simple gold band fit perfectly.

Glided into place with such ease.

Then he kissed her, lifting her from the sand as a warm wave came in and rushed around his feet making them both laugh and she felt weightless and happy, surrounded by him and everything around them faded away.

**000000**

She came back to life.

Slowly.

Became aware of her surroundings.

Slowly.

Mostly aware of the strain on her bladder. The natural twinges drawing her from unnatural sleep.

Growing more urgent.

It was dark behind her eyelids, so night.

Her cheeks were damp.

She brushed them dry with the heel of her hand.

Made her way to the bathroom, only a few steps. Mostly feeling her way.

The pressure off was a relief. Her body shivering from it. Feeling.

There was a reason she didn't want to do that.

Feel.

It was the lurking shadow in her slowly awakening mind.

She avoided it.

Her lips were dry.

Water.

The kitchen wasn't far.

She levered the tap on, filling a glass.

A cold shock to her system, but sucked down desperately.

Leaving her shivering.

In the other way.

She found the bed again, curling back upon herself, the covers back over her head, still retaining some of her body heat.

She opened her eyes beneath them.

The world grey.

A new world.

A very quiet one.

She let her mind wander.

For a moment she imagined him before her.

A slightly hazy combination of memories reformed into a whole.

Blinking back at her calmly with blue eyes sad, and heartfelt.

But it was too much and she covered her eyes with a dry heaving sob.

She just missed him so much.

It was a new world.

A very different one.

A world where her husband had told her over the phone that their marriage was over and she hadn't remembered it.

The beach fluttered across her minds-eye.

Where her marriage was over... and she hadn't been asked.

The way he had looked as he said, 'I do.'

Where it was just over.

A world where nothing made sense.

And there were no tears left to cry.

In the quiet his voice played over and over again in her head.

'_You've been hard to get a hold of,' _

'_This is for the best,' _

'_It's the right thing.' _

He hadn't denied it. Explained it. Anything.

He hadn't even seemed to notice that her heart had exploded right in her chest.

He had felt very far away. Distant. Frustratingly beyond her desperate grasp.

He hadn't tried to comfort her.

And the worst thing was that when she thought of comfort, she thought of nothing more than being in his arms, the way he held her when she cried.

That was what she wanted right now – despite everything – and that hurt more.

She rocked herself slowly, stirring some warmth, some attempt at reassurance.

And her own words echoed inside her emptiness.

'_I miss you, I want you here with me,' _

'_You're a coward,' _

'_You bastard.'_

Words tear-filled and raw.

Angry, hurt, overwhelmed.

Why hadn't she asked him why?

And why hadn't she said the other words?

The weight of the question was heavy in her chest.

For the first time in their married life.

She had not said,_ 'I love you.'_

Every time they had spoken, she had said those words.

And he had returned them.

Would it have made a difference if she had told him?

Would it have destroyed her to not hear them back?

She lay there a long time.

Studying the weave of the cotton.

The way the growing light filtered in through the spaces.

A new day.

She didn't have to go to work.

It was her off shift.

Which was good: no questions.

How was she going to tell them?

Nick and Greg who had barely noticed?

Finn and DB who had been cautiously inquisitive?

Who didn't really know her well enough to push yet, who didn't get that some days she didn't know what to do when someone asked what was wrong, she had grown so used to discretion and secrets.

Even Hodges, how would she tell him, when she was already the bad guy for tempting his Great Gil Grissom from the Lab.

She tightened the arms around her own waist.

Feeling numb, her own arms were no relief.

This was why being off was bad: a lot of time.

To fill.

To think.

About what she was going to do.

How she might fix this?

Fix herself.

She couldn't hide here forever.

But she could for a while.

**000000**

She lay there as long as she could stand to be motionless.

Then her limbs began to shift.

The urge to be busy overtaking the melancholy still.

The pill had done its job this time, and hopefully only that.

She had slept at least eight hours straight.

So her memory was her own.

She rose.

Emotionally drained, but physically stronger.

Moving like she wasn't really there.

Responding only; on autopilot.

Showered. Dressed. Clothes just taken out of the drawer, the first things she laid her hands upon. Didn't bother to blow dry her hair.

No make-up. Who did she need that for?

Then she stood and waited. Wondering what to do next.

It was a new day.

But old habits remained.

She was drawn to search out her phone.

That thing, that one lifeline that had connected her life to his.

She touched it, it felt cold.

A lack of contact would be just as devastating as contact.

It was a no win situation.

Her hand faltered.

She did not power it up.

Not yet.

Instead she plugged its charger into the wall. Connected it. Put it back onto her dresser.

Gave it a chance at life.

Just in case.

Then she left it well alone.

Until she was ready.

Instead she picked up the clothing from her bedroom floor, dumping them into the hamper, tore the sheets from the bed, bundled them into the hamper too, motions becoming frenzied when the material tangled or caught. Then she dragged the hamper to the washing machine, the wicker basket scraping along the tiled floor. Filling it up, forcing the fabric inside, before she set it on, physically washing away all trace of the day behind her from the fibres.

She replaced the bedding.

Casting out the bed sheets in a wide wave.

Tightening each corner, tugging them under the weight of the mattress.

Then she tidied.

With intent.

Picked up the items from her bedside table that had been displaced when she had rushed late to work.

Ordered, replaced, neatened.

She hadn't had time to pick up after herself for a few days.

Then she began to clean.

The scent of bleach potent in the air; the rigorous circles she made over every surface leaving no germ un-massacred.

Sides, tables, bathroom, kitchen, floors. Wiped the windows, the appliances, the doors.

Hard steady work which allowed focus.

Made her heart pound with nothing but effort, made her breathing aerobic.

Each room completed in turn, ending with her bedroom.

Until there was nothing left to clean.

Looking cleaner and newer and fresher.

She picked up the little orange bottle from the bedside table.

There was a job left.

One which was a problem.

She had one pill left.

And the idea made her antsy.

Twitchy in ways she didn't like and she couldn't control.

The cracked orange bottle only holding one single remaining quotient of relief.

If she didn't go today, tomorrow she had no option.

And it was only an option.

She was lying. Even to herself.

It wasn't a choice to take them anymore.

It was her only option if she wanted to rest.

To forget for a little while and let her regroup and gather strength.

And suddenly that was more important than anything.

It was the only thing she really had left.

That and work.

And memories.

But calling the Doctor required her phone and she had left it on her bedside table.

Still silent.

Still off.

She approached it like a suspect.

Stared it down.

Then picked it up, pressed the power button and held her breath.

For a couple of moments it went crazy in her palm.

Beeping and vibrating, little lights flashing.

Then it fell silent again.

She'd ring, first, ask for a repeat prescription.

Then she'd look.

The answering voice on the phone was overly breezy and short at the same time. Receptionist tone down pat.

Her voice caught as she gave her name, vocal cords unused for so many hours.

Always her name, never his.

"I'm sorry, but we cannot give refills on that type of medication without an appointment." The singsong voice told her.

She swallowed her retort, hard.

"Alright, then can I make one?"

She sounded aggressive.

This was the right way to not get what she wanted. She couldn't help herself. She suffered no fools today.

Or any day really.

"How is three thirty?"

An hour and a half away. She'd be lucky in this traffic.

She thought about asking for later, but the receptionist had taken on a clipped tone.

She restrained herself again, aware that if she spoke her mind that there would be a mark made on her records, she could see it coming. Verbally Abusive.

"Great."

She disconnected.

It wasn't great.

Now she would need to rush.

And now she would need a reason. A good one. A believable one.

One to explain why she was still taking tablets that had been prescribed years ago.

The other problem was that she would have to go out.

In public.

She looked down at her bleach splattered jeans. Her wholly mismatched top.

She could see her reflection in the now very shiny glass of the framed painting on her wall.

She looked crazy.

Hair wild, clothes rumpled.

Her eyes.

She looked away.

Unable to see that anymore.

A change of clothes, smart jacket, jeans, boots.

Her hair tamed with straightening irons.

Make-up.

That was hard.

Required a real mirror.

She was struck by what she saw there.

She stood motionless a moment.

If she had tears left she would have cried.

But she didn't.

Then she set to work.

The make-up helped little.

But enough.

Then her sunglasses completed the picture.

She knew there had been a good reason to spend money on the expensive ones.

With the blackest lenses.

You couldn't see her eyes now.

A relief.

She grabbed her phone, knowing full well that she hadn't attended to its little notification beeps of distress.

Knowing that it held answers she wasn't ready to hear yet.

It went into her purse.

To be dealt with later.

**000000**

Stepping outside was disorienting for a few moments.

The sun was really bright.

The weather unfazed by her heartbreak.

Not a gloomy cloud in the sky.

She drove this time.

Taking control of her life back.

Winding down the driver's side window and letting the warm air roar over her.

The waiting room was quiet, no privacy at all as she checked in for her appointment.

She had to take her glasses off, so kept her eyes averted.

The line of pamphlets across the counter was riveting.

Being amongst other people was harder than she expected. She felt self-conscious and awkward. Aware of herself more painfully than usual.

There was a man behind the desk. Maybe Ms High and Mighty receptionist had gone home for the day or was on break. A relief whatever the reason.

She avoided all eye contact as she waited.

Usually she would check email, or use her phone. As so many people did now during the pauses in their life.

But not today.

Painfully reminded once again that she had not checked it. Not read the messages that had arrived.

Or called him back.

But now was not the place or the time.

Eventually they called her name.

Her name, not his, never used his, except in moments where she was teasing her colleagues.

'_Well. Then I won't mention that I'm Mrs. Grissom.'_

Was that a reason why? Why this hadn't worked. His mother had certainly been 'vocal' enough about it, telling everyone whom she had introduced her to that she was very modern and had kept her own name. Like it was a bad thing.

She trailed the nurse to the Doctors office.

Feeling anxious and twitchy again.

Afraid they would see right through her lies. She was terrible at deception. Her face too open and expressive.

But it turned out lying was almost too easy.

He wasn't her usual Doctor, but a locum tenens, young and inexperienced, overwhelmed and clearly stressed; he didn't look her in the eye or even ask the right questions.

She told him she was working long hours and it took too long to wind down.

He signed the prescription paper before she had even placed her bag on the ground.

His advice to help her sleep better was to take a little time for herself; to look after herself, relax with a bath, listen to soothing music, or be social, go out with friends, her husband.

She bit back her flinch.

He had seen the ring.

She still wore it.

She said nothing.

Then made awkward by her extended silence he quickly shuffled her out of his office.

And she was free again.

Piece of all important paper in her hand.

The pharmacist reminded her not to take the pills with alcohol.

But in a way that told her that she had spoken those words a thousand times today alone and they had lost all meaning to her.

She paid her money and left, never saying a word. Never committing to anything.

Never removing her sunglasses.

Who cared if she looked crazy?

Her world had turned on its head.

And she had just let it.

It was more than likely that she was.

**000000**

She stopped at the market on the way back.

Bought things to fill her empty refrigerator.

Little seemed to appeal, so she chose staples.

Milk, bread, fruits, some 'freshly-made' soups.

Her appetite wasn't thrilled by the idea of any of it, but she bought it anyway.

Wandering the aisles, trying to find something.

Basic toiletries, new tube of toothpaste, a shower gel that smelt nice. She chose several bottles of red wine.

Paid, parcelled up, returned to the car, and placed the items in the trunk.

She had turned the radio dial to off.

Opened the window again, listening to the rush of the air past the vehicle, it was times like this when she missed having a faster car, when she wanted to not care so much about the environment and gun the engine so hard she flew.

Her place practically gleamed when she stepped inside.

She killed the alarm.

Relocked.

Tossing her keys and purse onto the table, she carried in the groceries and put them away.

Kicked off her boots she replaced them with the softness of her slippers.

Put a soup in the microwave and watched it spin, letting the scent of warming vegetables tempt her appetite.

When the machine pinged, she carried the bowl over to her comfiest chair.

Settling herself in.

Bowl of soup in one hand, attention focused on the screen before her.

Her phone.

She felt calmer now.

Not necessarily ready, but more prepared.

She curled her legs up under her.

Then balancing the bowl in the curve between her knees, she touched her way to the call list.

Finn had called her once.

DB too.

Then Gil Grissom.

Three times.

All since they had spoken last, whilst she had slept.

There were no answer messages.

Just one text.

From him.

That simply read:

'_I will give you time.'_

Her stomach was heavy with disappointment.

Time was not what she wanted.

She wanted to talk.

To argue.

To work this out.

For him to have changed his mind.

For him to want to fight for this, for them, for her.

But that was always her role in this relationship.

Always.

She had been the one to encourage and tempt and ask.

She should know better.

Or she could try...

**To Be Continued...**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: **Working my way through the aftermath...

**Author Notes: **How to start, work through and end this chapter drove me crazy! I got stuck for a while, but eventually found inspiration again after watching old GSR moment clips on the youtube!

Thank you to those still reading and thank you even more to those reviewing and taking the time to let me know what you think!

**Home Is Where The Coded Notebook Is.**

By Rianne

_Chapter Eight._

She stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom.

And focused only on the details.

She was good at that.

Avoiding the whole picture was hard, went against her training, took concerted effort, but kept her controlled.

She had lined up all the cosmetics she owned. A little parade of them across her dresser.

Then she set to work.

Filling in the dark shadows beneath her eyes first.

The tube said something in its formula reduced bags and swelling and made dark circles simply disappear.

She was suspicious of the claims, but it was the best she had.

Then she added the foundation.

Hid the freckles and lines born of worry.

Dusted over with bronzer in a barely bronze shade.

No point looking like she had just stepped out of the oven.

Pinked her cheeks, to imitate life.

Highlighted her eyes, added a touch of colour to the lids, sharpened them with liquid liner, and not kohl.

Harsher, more determined.

Brought out the lashes with sweeps of mascara.

Before enhancing her lips with a sleek swipe of gloss.

Different to her usual more natural look.

A painted face.

A mask.

A defence.

But she didn't look bad.

Not quiet herself.

But not bad.

And she did not feel like herself, so it fit.

She gave the woman in the mirror a final once over.

Nodding with finality.

Then she approached her desk.

Retrieving some perfectly organised stationary.

She needed a list.

Sat with pen and actual paper and scrawled things down.

Knowing all to well her own inability to remember things when he distracted her.

Biting on the end of her pen.

Ridged uniform marks appearing in the soft plastic.

There were unpleasant things appearing upon this page.

Truths she needed him to hear.

Painful questions she needed to ask.

Words which held enormous amounts of emotion.

Things that would bestow pain and cause it in equal amounts.

It made the possibility of them being over more real to see those words.

She shouldn't have to ask him these things.

She should know the answers.

The fact that she didn't made her cold.

She folded the paper in half, enclosing the words, restraining them until they were necessary.

Then she checked the clock.

Time to ready herself.

Her Ipad came to life quickly.

Her Skype connection was already live, she signed in.

It was time.

Mother and son weekly conversation time.

After his mother had come visiting her at the Lab and had spoken to Gil via Skype, Betty Grissom had gone out and bought a tablet of her own and had with her assistance joined the site.

They spoke weekly, always at this time.

She and Gil had once spoken every day.

That was a rhythm he no longer maintained.

And sure enough Gil Grissom's little green bubble was ticked on her screen.

He was out there.

She steeled her resolve.

Waiting.

Would he call her?

Had he seen her there yet?

Would he see her and panic and sign off?

The silence was achingly loud.

Her heart was pounding.

Was he talking to his mother about them?

About what had happened in the last few days, weeks, hours?

Her fingers were trembling.

Talking to his mother and not talking to her.

But that wasn't quite fair.

He had tried to talk to her and she hadn't been ready.

She was ready now.

He had two more minutes.

That was the end of the mother and son half hour.

Both of them ordered and ritual-like in their habits.

She stared at his name so hard the letters burned into her retinas.

She could still see them when she blinked.

She fidgeted.

Sitting on her hands to warm them.

Irritated that there was no way to know if he was still on a call with his mother. The site gave no indication as to if a call was in progress unless it was your own call and then you could see time tick away as you spoke.

Two minutes was a long time.

Especially when so much of you depended on it.

It gave far too much time to think.

To prepare.

To get worked up and angry.

She resisted the urge to get up and pace.

She looked over her notes again.

Then placed them under her left thigh.

The ideas dancing about inside her head.

Thoughts of differing ways to approach her arguments; and they were that.

Arguments.

She wanted answers first.

To know things.

Then she would decide whether her instinct to fight for them remained true.

If they were going to survive someone needed to argue for them.

If that had to be her, so be it.

The half hour was up.

Her heart was pounding.

It was now or never.

That is really how it felt.

She selected him from her contacts list.

Took another moment.

Then she pressed the small green call icon.

And held her breath.

The sound of the programme dialling was loud.

The melodious tone making her ears ring after so long in uncomfortable solitude.

And on it played.

And on.

And she waited.

His little green light was still glowing.

Still ticked in confirmation of his being still signed on.

So he was there.

The call had not been refused or bounced back, leading her to believe he had finished his conversation with his mother.

He was deciding.

It was a small comfort to realise that he was considering.

That he hadn't simply gone offline.

But you know what, it wasn't enough.

They had been together for too long.

Known each other for too long.

She deserved better than this.

She picked up her phone.

Her heart was in her throat.

Beating.

As on around her the Skype dial tone still rang.

She pulled up his number and in the text box simply typed.

_ANSWER ME._

Completely sick of his indecision.

The message took flight.

She waited.

Then, almost without ceremony, connection was made.

On Skype, the call in progress box appeared.

Their shared seconds began ticking away.

The noise of faint static filled the air.

He said nothing.

Her video call picture began and she was surprised to see how she looked displayed in the little box.

She looked better than she expected.

His remained blank.

Still neither spoke.

Then his image filled the screen.

**000000**

She was breathless, motionless, as her gaze flickered over his features.

He looked dreadful.

Most of his face completely obscured by white beard; his hair was longer and curled untamed.

But his eyes.

They were empty.

Just like hers.

Rimmed with dark hollows.

He was suffering.

And despite herself she was angry, pleased and sorry in equal measures.

It was good to know he hurt too.

That he looked as she felt.

Sad, serious, tired.

But why?

Why were they doing this to one another?

How could destroying themselves like this be a solution to long term problems?

She had been determined to emerge with guns blazing, start tearing him to pieces for answers, but the sight of him derailed her assault.

She had demanded he and answer, and he had.

But there was no triumph.

No closure to be found in seeing him so lifeless like this.

It only bred worry.

Reminded her of the long dark hours after Warrick's death, where he had lain on their bed, just as lifeless, staring into nothingness.

Both finding it too difficult to ask for help, even after all this time.

Always determined to do things for themselves.

She had to speak first.

But her questions were still tucked under her thigh, and in the end the words that came were different.

"Are we really giving up?"

Her voice broke as the words escaped, and she took a moment to swallow.

Watching as a flicker of something resembling life crossed his features.

"It feels like we are," she managed to continue.

He licked his lips.

Averted his eyes a moment to think.

She was wrong.

This was harder.

A million times harder to talk like this when she could see his face.

Could see the way he struggled to keep in control.

_It's easy to wear your heart on your sleeve when you're not looking in his eyes._

She had said that to him once.

It still applied.

"Is there someone else?" She sounded so small.

He physically jerked before her.

"No!"

His tone louder than either expected.

"No," he continued, clearly forcing himself to be calmer. "No one else."

She was glad of that, but also empty.

If there had been someone else it would have destroyed her, but at least there would have been a reason.

"Were you not happy... with me?"

She bit her lip.

"Sara..."

Just the way he said her name.

His gaze met hers and even through the distance of the screen she knew he had been.

"I don't regret it." The tears had arrived, blurring his image, but she continued, ignoring them. "Our life together. Our marriage."

"Maybe I'm just not made for marriage." He told her. His words were slow and painfully controlled. Trying to take the blame that should be shared.

"But you asked me!" She heard the desperation in her voice.

As the gentle hum of bees filled her memory.

_You know, maybe we should get married?_

She could remember the surprise, the rush, the sharp stinger as it pierced her palm.

It hadn't been the most romantic proposal ever, but it was his and that was all that had mattered._  
_

"We didn't have to get married. I would have been fine with us just being together." She told him softly.

He looked so desolate.

"And you are a good husband."

She left it present tense.

She also discounted that he had missed their wedding anniversary.

Letting it slide without comment.

Letting the lack of communication slide too.

That wasn't the behaviour of a good husband.

Neither was abandoning her at his mother's party, defenceless against his ex-girlfriend.

She could make excuses for him, but it didn't change facts.

They were always in a struggle for protection, to do what was right for themselves, for each other. Never seeming to find a compromise that worked for both for long enough.

And they were right back there again.

In that cycle they always had fallen into.

One which had begun a life time ago.

When he had invited her to Vegas, and then treated her just like one of his employees, just another colleague, when his invitation had promised more.

She had asked him to have dinner with her.

He had declined.

She was his employee – he didn't know what to do about this.

He had told her to get a life, she had; he had punished her for it.

They had finally figured 'this' out and were together.

Then Natalie had nearly killed her.

Left her stranded and broken in the desert.

But she had survived, they had found her.

Followed her trail, her codes laid out in the sand.

He had asked her to marry him.

She had said yes.

His eyes had lit with a glow she had never seen.

Then the ghosts had overwhelmed her.

She had fled.

Leaving nothing but a note.

No plans to return.

Until McKean had torn Warrick from them.

And even then, in the very depths of his despair, she had not been able to tempt him to follow her.

Not even in the footsteps of Darwin.

He had told her that sooner or later a relationship in stasis withers.

You get angry.

You need more than the safety of not being alone.

Her reply had come from a place of hurting.

From the dawning realisation that Tom Adler was looking more and more likely to have lied about euthanizing Pamela, his wife.

From a place where his work was more important than she was, than they were.

A place she had thought they had moved past.

The response she had given him had been simple.

Had seemed just so simple to her then.

_Then he should have just walked away. _

Were they just too tough to let their relationship die?

_Maybe he couldn't. Maybe he needed her to leave him. _He had surmised.

No longer speaking of the Adlers.

So, she had.

She had set sail on the Sea Shepherd.

Had an adventure so amazing she hadn't been able to believe it.

Yet, he had been with her in spirit every step of the way.

Never far from her thoughts, especially when she saw something that would have amazed even him.

Her bunk had been decorated with his image.

Smiling out at her from photographs.

Even as her brain rationalised that he had let her go.

That he wasn't planning to follow her and be with her there.

To join her on her adventure.

The lab had been too important.

She knew now that his depression had been important too.

An overwhelming shadow over him.

His self inflicted sentence: to wallow in self pity and self loathing, stronger than the desire to be happy.

So she had sent him the video.

From onboard ship in a Galapagos bay.

Setting him free.

Absolving him of any ties and guilt.

_I've been waiting for you to decide. But sometimes, not making a decision, is making a decision._

And the video had had the opposite effect.

(Or had it.)

It had brought him stumbling out of the jungle towards her.

Had challenged him to leave all he knew in pursuit of her.

And they had been happy.

Had married on the beach as the waves crested.

Promised to share their lives.

Had canoed under the stars.

Had lived in Paris.

Seen Europe.

Been together.

Until they weren't.

He found jobs easily.

She did not.

She did not know the language, at first.

Boredom had set in.

Then the arguments.

Becoming full blown fights.

She had seen more of the most romantic city in the world alone that she had with her husband.

All they tended to see together was in the inside of their apartment.

And their bedroom.

Delighting in the simple joy of being together.

Until that too started to fade.

Discord between them dampening the flame.

So when the first call had come from Ecklie, asking for a recommendation from Gil about choosing a new member of staff, she had decided to return.

To feel useful again.

To face her final demon.

To give them the space both knew they were in need of.

Not infinite space.

Just some time to breathe and not be under one another's feet for a while.

Yet, that had been three years ago.

Many star-crossed reunions ago.

And here they were again.

"How did we get back here?" She asked him.

He shook his head.

"I don't know."

His words were slow and measured in their articulation.

"Always at this impasse. If we were in the same place, do you think we would still be together?"

Her question gave him pause.

Too much pause.

She knew he remembered their bickering fights just as clearly as she did.

Their irritations over the personality traits of the other.

Normal marriage problems spoken about by couples for all of time.

But harder when they are your normal marriage problems.

"You went back to Vegas to give us space." He told her. His calm voice beginning to fray at the edges. "Did you think I didn't know that?"

She remained silent.

Waiting for his dam to break.

For the emotion to come spilling over his carefully maintained walls.

"Did you think I didn't see that you were unhappy in Paris with me? Just watching me work and waiting? That I didn't notice you were lonely, withdrawn, that being away from your friends, and being unable to find a job was depressing the hell out of you? That there weren't things you wanted to do with your life. Things I didn't fit into?"

She closed her eyes, swallowed, nodding as she opened her eyes.

She should have known better than to think he hadn't seen.

"Why didn't we say these things then?" She asked quietly, knowing that the answer was cowardice, fear, not wanting to upset the other, and a desperately misguided desire to preserve each other's happiness.

"You wouldn't even let me touch you anymore. Let alone talk to you about this. You picked fights with me about everything. And I knew why. That I wasn't enough to keep you happy anymore."

"No, Gil..." she murmured, but he cut her off.

"You were dying inside and I couldn't stand it. I couldn't fix it. I would have done anything."

He had blamed himself.

It was all true. He hadn't even argued when she had suggested taking a trip back to Vegas to work temporarily.

"So I let you go, when you wanted too." He was losing it and her heart was pounding. "I didn't stop you and you left me."

"Do you think it didn't hurt to hear from you when you called." His voice grew louder, "to see you looking beautiful and happy. To hear you telling me all about the interesting cases you worked, the breakfasts with the guys, your new boss. Did you even wonder how I felt hearing you sounding so happy back there, so refreshed and alive, without me?" He spat. "To know once and for all that I wasn't the thing that you needed."

"I know how hard it is!" She cried back. "I feel it every time I speak to you. The excitement in your voice when you describe your discoveries, you sound like you did when I first met you."

She trailed off, reeling in the emotion.

"Why can we never make it right for both of us?" He asked sorrowfully.

A question posed that could not be answered.

They stared at each other, seeking resolution and finding none.

"You look good," he told her, eventually breaking the silence.

"I was heading out to meet Finn," she lied, before sobbing out, "You look terrible!"

He didn't laugh.

Or even smile.

Silence returned.

Now was the time to speak up.

To just say it.

"I want to make it work." She told him. Determination filling her words.

Just as his rusty voice said, "I can't keep doing this anymore."

Their words overlapping. Yet, each heard the other.

His voice deathly calm in comparison to the heat in hers.

Forever at an impasse.

Always at a contradiction.

Except over one thing.

"I will always love you."

He told her, voice grave with emotion, which for once was not hidden.

Her hands formed fists as her eyes filled.

"Don't say that right now." She gasped out.

Her voice was trembling, but her tone was harsher.

"I know it doesn't feel like it now but, it is better this way." He said slowly. "For both of us."

He paused for a moment, then said, "I'll send you the papers."

Then the connection went dead.

And his image was gone.

Making her gasp out.

Like he had been snatched from her.

Leaving her frozen in place.

Shell-shocked.

And in silence once again.

**To Be Continued...**


End file.
